The Dead Man's Raid
by good4now
Summary: As the end of the War in Africa draws near, Troy and Dietrich both mourn losses in parallel.
1. Aces Over Eights

Troy pulled on his boots, carefully smoothing down the fabric of his khakis into the tops. Satisfied, he stood up and tucked his shirt into his trousers. Then, he picked up a comb and slicked his still damp hair back.

"Big plans, Troy?" Moffitt had an eyebrow cocked in Troy's direction.

"Nah, I'm just going to have a few drinks and play some poker. They're some guys in camp that I know from a while back. We thought that getting together sounded like fun." Troy looked down at Moffitt. "What are you up to?"

"I have a date with Nefertiti."

"Huh?" Troy tried to think if the girl sounded familiar. Local girl, from the sound of the name. He wondered if the lady had a friend. Maybe he didn't need to play cards after all . . .

"Queen of the Nile." Laughing, Moffitt tapped the cover of his book. "This is what I'm doing, Troy. You're looking at it."

There was a part of Troy that knew that Moffitt would have just as much fun lying on his bunk and reading as Troy would sitting around the card table with a bottle of whiskey at one elbow and hopefully, a mound of loot at the other.

But there was also a part of Troy that believed that staying in with a book was a hell of a way to waste a free Saturday night.

Troy cleared his throat. "Moffitt?"

Moffitt placed the book back on his chest. "Yes, Troy?"

"You want to join us? Hitch and Tully are going to be playing, too," Troy offered. He doubted that he would get an affirmative answer, but he felt like it would have been rude not to ask.

"Poker, eh? The American kind, I assume?" Moffitt frowned.

Troy blinked. "Is there another kind?"

"Hey, Sarge? You ready?" came Hitch's voice from outside of the tent. "Tully and I sure are ready to go take your friends' money."

"Yeah, just a sec," Troy yelled back. He looked back at Moffitt who had already started reading again. "Should be a good time. You sure that you don't want to play?"

"I don't know much about what you would consider to be poker." Moffitt turned a page. "I doubt how skilled I'd be."

Hitch poked his head inside of the tent. "You should definitely play then, Moffitt." Troy had to grin at the gleam in the kid's eye. Hitch looked at Troy. "I'll teach him." Hitch then looked at Moffitt. "I'll make you a card sharp in no time."

Despite Hitch's bravado, Moffitt's expression was still skeptical.

"Come on, Moffitt," Hitch said. "It's really all about luck. The rest is pretty easy."

Troy couldn't argue. He'd had nights where he couldn't catch a good hand. And then he'd had nights where nearly every hand was a winner. As long as Moffitt knew the basic rules of the game, and some of the strategy, he'd have as much of a chance as any of them.

Lighting a cigarette, Troy looked at Moffitt. "How lucky are you feeling, Moffitt?"

As an answer, Moffitt sat up and carefully marked his place before putting it on the trunk that sat beside of his cot. "I feel fairly lucky that I'm getting a reprieve from that book. It's bloody awful." He got up and stretched. "Do I need to bring anything?"

Hitch gave a wicked smile. "Yeah. Your wallet."

* * *

They walked the half mile or so to the local watering hole where Troy's friends were waiting. It was a short walk, but by the time that they'd reached the place, Hitch had done a fairly decent job of educating Moffitt on the finer points of stud and draw poker.

To his credit, Moffitt seemed to have picked it up pretty quickly, Troy thought. At least he was asking all the right questions and nodding at the appropriate times.

Troy led the way through the dark bar and to the back room. He parted the beaded curtain and was greeted by a chorus of yells. The room only had a few tiny windows and though the night was young the smoke was already pretty thick.

However, Troy had no trouble making out all of the guys that were already seated around the table.

An older man got up and was the first to shake Troy's hand. "Sam! It's good to see you, you old son of gun!"

Troy returned the hearty handshake. "John, it's great to see you!" He turned back to where Moffitt, Hitch, and Tully stood. "This is John Twofish. Otherwise known as the Chief. John, this Jack Moffitt, Mark Hitchcock, and Tully Pettigrew."

John shook all of their hands in turn. Then he looked at Troy. "So, these are the poor bastards that are stuck with you now, huh, Sam?"

"Yep. We're all stuck with each other." Troy grinned at Hitch. "And if I had to be stuck in this god forsaken desert, there's no one else I'd rather be here with. Present company included, of course."

"Well, that's good to hear. Surviving the war is all about the company that you keep." John shook his head and pulled a face as he looked at his men. "God help us all." He raised his glass to them and grinned.

Good natured cries of protest went up from those assembled in the room before they all toasted.

John nodded around the table. "The usual suspects."

Troy went around the group, greeting everyone in turn and introducing his team to Corporals and Privates Jones, McAfferty, Adams, and Lewis.

Troy couldn't help but to feel like his face was going to split from grinning. With a war on, he felt incredibly lucky to be able to see old friends again. To have them all present and accounted for, still alive and whole, seemed like more than a minor miracle.

John pulled out a chair for Troy. "Well, gentleman, have a seat. We'll get started. Let me just get some clean glasses and some more booze from the barkeep while you get your money out. Hope you brought plenty." John disappeared through the curtain.

Troy, Tully, Hitch and Moffitt took their seats around the table. It wasn't lost on Troy that Moffitt made an effort to sit next to Hitch. Troy wasn't sure how wise that was. He hoped Moffitt had enough sense to keep his cards to himself. Troy knew that Hitch wouldn't be above using any advantage that was presented to supplement his own naturally good luck in order to take the pot.

Everyone settled in, and as instructed, they all got their wallets out. Troy noticed Moffitt's looked fuller than usual. He remembered that Moffitt was on a different pay schedule.

It was pretty obvious to him that Hitch had not forgotten. The kid had a predatory look on his face as he too watched Moffitt. Shaking his head, Troy hoped that he didn't end up feeling bad about insisting that Moffitt come along.

John reappeared and Troy took the glass that John offered him. He took a drink, taste buds tensed for the worst. Troy was pleasantly surprised to find that what was in his glass was actually whiskey.

He leaned back and lit a cigarette. He looked around the table at his friends, old and new, all talking and laughing, as they watched with anticipation as the first hand was dealt. Troy wasn't sure how good he was going to do with the cards, but he sure felt lucky.

It was going to be a good night.

* * *

There were some good hands, and there were some bad hands. Most of the bad hands belonged to Moffitt.

So much for beginner's luck, thought Troy, as he watched Moffitt lose again.

"Chief, may I ask you question?" Moffitt asked, as they were waiting for the next deal.

"Sure, Moffitt." John sucked on his cigar. "What?"

Moffitt, head on his hand, was looking at John with intense curiosity. "Are you an American Indian?"

John gave Troy a look that clearly said "Are you kidding me?"

Troy shrugged. "He's English," he said by way of explanation. It was as good of an answer as any. And as Troy had found by experience, it really was the reason for most of the odd things that Moffitt said and did.

"Well, I guess that I really don't look like the white guys in the movies that they got wearing the war paint and scalping folks, do I?"

"No," agreed Troy. He gestured to his head. "Might help if you wore the big feathered bonnet, though."

"Well, I would, but it seems like someone else already has the crazy hat thing covered in this war, Sam." John gave an obvious glance to where Troy's bush hat lay.

Troy laughed. "Watch it, Chief."

John winked at Troy before he turned his attention back to Moffitt. "Yep. I'm a member of a tribe that belongs to the Iroquois Nation, Moffitt."

"Oh, that is fantastic! I am very interested in the history and traditions of your people. If you're going to be around for the next fortnight or so, I would very much like to discuss your culture with you." Moffitt stopped, obviously checking his excitement with effort. Seeming to remember his manners and the need for fine English restraint, Moffitt cleared his throat. "That is, if you wouldn't mind, Sergeant Twofish?"

"Nah, I wouldn't mind at all. I'd be happy to talk to you about my people. Always nice to meet someone who's interested."

"I am very interested indeed." Moffitt picked up his cards. "You know, you're the first actual American that I've ever had the pleasure to meet."

Hitch looked up in surprise. "Hey! What are we, Moffitt?"

Moffitt finished his whiskey before answering. "An amalgamation of criminals, opportunists, and strays from God knows what countries with nowhere else to go? A rather large group of what amounts to trespassers and squatters whom were never rousted from where they landed?"

"Amen to that!" John raised his glass with a grin. When it obvious that no one else was going to return his toast but Moffitt, John shrugged and drank anyway. He elbowed Troy. "I like this guy. Bring him around any time."

"Be careful what you ask for." Troy shook his head. "After he asks you a million questions, and then he starts in on one of his lectures about how similar your culture is to some ancient desert tribe's, you might just change your mind."

"Lectures?" John raised an eyebrow as he sorted his hand.

"Moffitt's a professor. PhD in anthropology from Cambridge. His dad's a pretty famous anthropologist, and Moffitt was an anthropologist, too. Before the War."

"Really?" John sighed. "Seems like a shameful waste of all of that education, just to have him come out here and let the German's shoot at him."

"I couldn't believe it when they sent him to me," Troy said honestly. "But he knows the desert like the back of his hand. Actually knows a lot of other stuff, too. All of which he's not afraid to tell you about it."

"Sounds educational, to say the least. Good guy, though, I can tell."

"Yeah, he is." Troy took another look at his hand and then threw his money in the pot. "And he's pretty good at giving the Germans hell, to boot."

"Well, he's obviously done his part to keep you alive." John opened another bottle of whiskey and refilled Troy's glass before he refilled his. He then passed the bottle off to his left. "And that's no small feat, Sam. Ask me, I know."

Troy smiled as he thought about that. "We all keep each other alive," he said, finally.

John nodded. "Now, that's something that the boys will all drink to." He raised his glass again. "To being alive!"

"To being alive!" the men chorused.

"And to staying that way!" John returned, as he raised his glass again.

* * *

Looking around the table, Hitch seemed to be the big winner, with John not far behind him. Troy thought that Tully looked to be doing well, too.

Moffitt, unfortunately, seemed to be the biggest loser.

Though, Troy couldn't judge Moffitt's losing streak too harshly. Troy's game hadn't exactly been hot, either. But, he was comfortably certain that he wasn't down more than a dollar. And that was fine with him.

It was a small price to pay for a night of good company, good booze, and even better stories.

It brought Troy no small sense of amusement that the conversation around the table had developed into everyone trying to outdo each other with their war stories. Troy let them do all of the talking. After all, he'd been there first hand for most of it. And if some of the accounts of their adventures seemed a little more fantastical than they had when he had lived them, well, that was neither here or there.

The hours passed pleasantly, measured easily in the constant turn of the hands and the ever growing pile of empty bottles.

However, all good things came to an end. Troy realized that the end was near when John finally returned from the bar empty handed.

"I have some very bad news, gentlemen," John said, his tone grave.

"What, Chief?" McAfferty asked, concerned. "What happened?"

"The worst thing that could have happened." Looking appropriately sorrowful, John shook his head. "We drank all of the whiskey. And all of the gin. And all of the bourbon. And, I'm sorry to report, all of the scotch."

"Beer?" Tully asked, hopefully.

"The barkeep is going to bring us some. And let me just warn you, it's probably going to be pretty bad." John sat down at the table. He watched as Hitch yawned. "I think that this might be a sign, fellows. It's probably time to call it a night." John looked around the table. "We've had our fun and we all have a big few weeks coming up. Lots of work to do."

Troy nodded and caught Moffitt's eye. "Yeah."

Moffitt looked suddenly sober and returned Troy's nod.

They'd all been to the same briefings. "Big" was one word for what was ahead for all of them. So was "dangerous" and so was "tough." But, if all went to plan, the events of the next few weeks would turn the tide in the favor of the Allied forces. Permanently. Troy could live with whatever it took to accomplish that.

The beer was served. Troy noticed a few more yawns among the men. He looked at John. "One more hand?"

"Sounds like a plan, Sam." John took the cards. "And I hope it's a good one. Baby needs new shoes and grandma needs new teeth."

After John had dealt the first three cards, the guys at the table made their first bets. Troy knew that it was doubtful that he was going to be adding to his winnings with the cards that he was holding. If it hadn't been the last hand, he would have folded. Instead, he let John deal him two more cards and hoped for the best.

When the best, or anything even remotely approaching it, didn't appear Troy decided to cut his losses and folded. He was surprised to see most of the table doing the same thing.

Troy cocked an eyebrow at John. "That was a hell of a deal, Chief. Did you even shuffle those cards?"

John snorted. He pushed his own cards to the center of the table. "I didn't do myself any favors, either, Sam. If that makes you feel any better about it."

"Actually, it does make me feel better." Troy lit a cigarette and offered one to John.

They settled back to watch how the final hand was going to unfold.

When all was said and done, only Hitch and Moffitt still remained in the game.

It was Hitch's bet. Hitch looked at his hand. Then he looked at Moffitt.

Moffitt merely raised his eyebrows. "What's it going to be, Hitch?"

With another look at his cards and a cocky tilt of his head, Hitch pushed a sizeable pile of currency towards the pot. "That. What's it going to be, Moffitt?"

Moffitt took a drink of his beer and made a face. "Christ. That is bloody awful."

Hitch grinned. "The beer? Or your hand?"

"The beer. I suppose we'll see about my cards." Slowly and precisely, Moffitt began counting funds to match Hitch's bet. "I'll accept your bet. And raise you."

"You're doing what?" Hitch narrowed his eyes in disbelief. "You sure about that, Moffitt?"

"Quite."

"Well . . ." Hitch looked at what remained of his winnings. "Why don't we just bet all of it?"

"Erm, well, I don't know." Moffitt frowned deeply and it was obvious to Troy that Moffitt was trying to mentally calculate the potential return on his investment. Or, the potential damage of a loss.

Troy had to believe if future results were a reflection of past performance that it wouldn't be good. "Moffitt . . ." Troy started. But then, he shut his mouth. Moffitt was a big boy. He could make his own mistakes, Troy decided.

Moffitt made his decision. "All right. So be it."

"Are you sure? Last chance, Moffitt. I don't really want to take all of your money. We can just leave it the way that it was," Hitch offered.

"Yes, absolutely certain. I accepted your bet and I intend to follow through. It wouldn't be cricket to do otherwise."

"It's okay, really, Moffitt."

"No really, I insist, Hitch. Let's play through."

John leaned over to Troy until their shoulders touched. "Good thing that this is the last hand. We might be here until sun up," he murmured.

Troy couldn't disagree. "Well, let's get on it with, you two. Hitch, you heard Moffitt. He's up to the bet. Show 'em."

Hitch hesitated and looked at Moffitt. "Two pair." He turned over his hand, never breaking eye contact with his opponent.

Troy looked at cards. Hitch had the pair of nines that had been showing, his hole cards had been a pair of deuces and he had picked up an ace kicker on the river. It wasn't a bad hand, but it wasn't a great one either. Troy decided Hitch had been betting on Moffitt's lack of sobriety and skill, and not on his own hand.

Moffitt smiled. "Well, that is a coincidence." He turned his hole cards, showing that he, too, held two pair. "But I think that mine are better."

Troy couldn't help but to laugh. Only his two knuckleheads would bet a pile of cash on those hands.

"Gents, I think," John proclaimed, "that Sergeant Moffitt takes it!"

"God damn it." Hitch threw his cards down. "I can't believe it."

"Beginner's luck, surely, Hitch. And I had an excellent teacher, you know." Moffitt, barely hiding a triumphant grin, began to rake the spoils of his victory his way.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Hitch crossed his arms against his chest and appeared to sulk.

Troy had to bet that Hitch's attitude was hardly helped by Tully's quiet snickering. He stifled his own grin at the turn of events.

"Moffitt?" Jones asked suddenly. "Can I see your hand real quick?"

"Certainly." Moffitt handed the cards to the kid.

Jones spread them out on the table and let out a low whistle. "Black aces over black eights. With a queen of hearts kicker." He looked at John and then at the rest of the table. "You all know what that is, don't you?"

John leaned across the table to get a better look. "Well, I'll be damned. I didn't even think about that."

Moffitt stopped trying to stuff his winnings into his wallet and looked up. "What is it?"

"It's the Dead Man's Hand," Tully said in a hushed voice.

John nodded. "Sure is, kid. I haven't seen one of those in a long time. And I played a lot of poker before the War. And during it, for what it's worth."

"I ain't never seen no one ever draw that hand for real, Sarge," said Jones. He looked around. The rest of the table shook their heads in agreement.

"Dead Man's hand?" Moffitt looked puzzled. "And what precisely does that mean?"

"The Dead Man's hand is the poker hand that Wild Bill Hitchcock was holding when he got shot in the back of the head. Aces over eights," John explained. "Two black aces and two black eights. There's some disagreement over the hole card, but lots of folks say that it was the queen of hearts. Exactly what you were holding, Moffitt."

"Oh." Moffitt looked at the cards and was quiet.

The rest of the table was quiet with him.

"So does this mean that I should watch my back?" Moffitt asked finally. He gave Troy a crooked grin.

Troy shrugged and returned the grin. "We'll all do that, Moffitt. If you return the favor."


	2. Operation Hurry Up and Wait

The Allies were calling it "Operation Sandstorm."

If Troy had to call it something, he would have called it "Operation Hurry Up and Wait."

A large team of men had converged on their camp, at the ready for what was to come. The problem was, it never seemed to arrive. Everyone was bored and antsy, looking forward to the next thing to do. Even if that next thing was to go out and engage the German Army on a scale that hadn't been seen before in Africa.

The one good thing about it, thought Troy, was that he'd gotten to spend a lot of time with old friends. Not only were John and his team in the camp, but lots of other guys who'd crossed his path during the war were around to be found. While Boggs and the other brass had forbidden anyone from actually leaving the five mile radius that surrounded the camp, it didn't put an end to the socialization. When the mission briefings and preparations were not in session, all of the men had plenty of time to pal around, renewing old friendships and making new ones.

And as the days went on, some seemed to be making new enemies. Troy knew that keeping everyone keyed up with too little to do was turning things nasty. Again and again, he had found himself intervening in yet another disagreement. Luckily, he had been able to stop most of them before they had turned too ugly. If there wasn't some action soon, there wouldn't be enough guys left to mount an attack, thought Troy. They'd all be locked up in the brig for disorderly conduct.

As he walked to the mess tent, Troy counted himself lucky that Hitch, Tully, and Moffitt seemed to have more sense and to be a whole lot better behaved than most. However, he still found it wise to keep tabs on them. Troy had asked that they still meet for meals every day.

Troy spotted Tully and Hitch as soon as he walked into the tent and waved to them. They waved back. It wasn't lost on him that John's guys were with them and he was glad of that. Hopefully, they would all manage to keep each other on the straight and narrow.

After filling his tray, Troy joined their table.

"Guess what, Sarge?" Lewis said, a big grin on his face.

"What, Lewis?" Troy asked with genuine curiosity. The kid looked excited. Troy felt like he could use some excitement.

"Tully and I found out that we're cousins. On my ma's side." Lewis chucked Tully in the shoulder. "What you think about that?"

"No kidding? What are the odds of that?" Troy responded. However, remembering that Lewis was from the backwoods of Virginia near the Kentucky border, Troy decided that he would have been more surprised if Tully and Lewis weren't related. "Small world, huh?"

"Yeah, it is. And the Cumberland Gap is even smaller." Tully chuckled. "When we started talking, it didn't take us long to figure it out."

Troy, mouth full, nodded. He was more surprised by Tully having enough of a conversation with Lewis to figure anything out. Though, knowing Lewis, he had probably done enough talking for the both of them.

Troy managed to swallow what was passing for meat that day. He looked over to Hitch, who seemed to have gotten chummy with Jones and McAfferty. "And what are you all up to? You're not related, are you?"

The three boys looked at each other and snickered.

"Nah, not hardly, Sarge," Hitch said. "But I do think that McAfferty and I might have dated that same girl once or twice."

"Probably at the same time, knowing the girl," McAfferty said, with a rise of his eyebrows and a slight leer. "Not that I'd call it 'dating' per se."

Hitch nodded. "Yeah, that's Susie all right." He gave Troy a look. "Susie's not exactly the girl that you would take home to mom, if you know what I mean, Sarge."

"I do." Troy grinned. "I've known a few of those in my time, too."

"I bet." Hitch grinned back.

Troy thought about taking another bite of his lunch but instead pushed his tray away. "What I don't know is, what is this stuff? It's like eating shoe leather. I'm about to start eating field rations."

"Don't eat the bread, if you think the meat is bad. I almost broke a tooth off on it." Hitch rubbed his jaw.

"If you ask me, they're too many officers running around here right now. They're getting all the good chow," said Lewis. "We're getting served last week's tank treads."

"You should just be happy you have food and a roof over your head while you eat it, son," John said, as he slid into the open place beside of Troy. "They're starving children, women and men all over this desert that would love to have your lunch."

Lewis looked down as if he had been scolded by his father. "Yes, Chief. You're right. Sorry."

Troy raised his eyebrows at young Lewis' acceptance of John's words. Hitch would've still been giving lip. Troy felt that he apparently needed to ask John for parenting tips. Not that he had seen John much over the past few days. John had been spending all of his time being interviewed by Moffitt.

"Well, Sarge, Chief, we've got to go," McAfferty said, getting up. Tully, Hitch, and Lewis took their trays and got up as well.

John looked at Troy. "Something we said?"

Hitch grinned at him. "Nah, Chief, not at all. We've got a baseball game starting in a few."

John nodded. "Go along then, you boys have fun."

"We will," said Hitch. "We're going to cream those other tank guys, aren't we, fellows?"

"Yeah!" said Tully. "When we're done with them, they're going to feel like . . . "Tully thought for a moment. "Well, like a tank done run them over."

"That was real funny, Tully," said Hitch, as he steered Tully towards the exit of the tent, with the other three guys in tow. "See you at dinner!"

Watching as the boys left, John shook his head in amusement. "Oh, to be young again, right, Sam?"

"Yeah. Though they're all a hundred years older than when we first met them."

"That's true for all of us, isn't it? Damned war," said John, with a sigh. He picked up his fork.

Troy watched as John's face as he sampled the food. "Don't worry, I won't tell them that you didn't eat your lunch. Your secret is safe with me."

"Thank God," said John, pushing his tray away just as Troy had. "What the hell is this slop?"

"Got me. Apparently, we've reached an all-time low on the chow line."

John pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered Troy one. "Well, if you want my theory, they've run low on rations. They expected us all to be out in the field a week or two ago. This camp and its supply chain isn't big enough for all of us."

Troy lit his cigarette. "Yeah, I'd say that you're right. I've been briefed so many times, I feel like I could recite the missions in my sleep."

"I'd give anything to know what the hold-up is."

"I'm sure that they have their reasons. Not that they would tell us," Troy agreed.

"Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die." John grinned and tapped at his bread with his knife. "Though it might be starvation that kills us, and not the war."

Troy wasn't surprised to hear the clanging sound when the metal hit the rock hard surface of the bread, but still he winced. "So, how are you and Moffitt getting along?"

"Oh, pretty good. He's got a lot of questions about my tribe. He does tend to lecture when he finds some fascinating similarity to another group of people, just as you said he would. But really, Sam, he's a pleasure. You can tell Moffitt's as smart as a whip."

"That he is."

John smiled. "This is going to sound funny, but I hadn't thought about a lot of the old ways until he started asking me about them. It's been nice for me to remember and to be able to tell him my grandfather's and his grandfather's stories. The Elders of the Tribe weren't exactly big on writing things down for posterity."

"No, I guess not," said Troy. "And they weren't exactly keen on inviting the white man to come and do it for them, were they?"

"No not at all. Can't blame them, though."

Troy nodded. He definitely couldn't blame them. He'd been on a reservation before. With the way the United States government treated the American Indians, Troy was always amazed that so many of them had been willing to fight in the War.

John looked thoughtful. "I'd heard that Hitler sent a bunch of guys over to the reservations to try learn our languages in 30's."

"No kidding?" Troy remembered hearing from his uncle that some Indians had served as coders in WWI. He supposed that the Nazis had tried to get ahead of the game this go around.

"Yeah. That went over like a ton of bricks, as you can imagine. No Germans on our reservations. They weren't welcome. The Iroquois Nations declared war on Germany in 1917."

"Why?" Troy leaned forward in interest.

"We declared war on the Germans when the US did, at the beginning of WWI." John shrugged. "Never let it go, I guess."

"Huh." Troy stubbed his cigarette out in the meat like substance on his tray. "That's interesting. I never knew any of that. Maybe I'll come and join you and Moffitt and I can hear more?"

"You are certainly more than welcome, Troy. It seems like we all have nothing but time on our hands," said Moffitt. He sat down with them. He looked at his tray with distaste. "I'm guessing that the food has gotten even worse?"

"You've got that right, Moffitt." Troy shook his head. "We're all going to starve to death before Operation Sandstorm even has a chance to begin."

"Well, that is a bloody shame." Moffitt picked at the grey lump on his tray. "As much as I'm enjoying the lull in the action, and Sergeant Twofish's company, it does seem as though we should be doing something a bit more constructive towards the war effort."

Moffitt tentatively speared a piece of the meat on his tray. Troy caught Moffitt's eye and shook his head. Moffitt frowned and picked up his bread.

"I wouldn't if I were you, Moffitt," John said.

"Is there anything worth eating? Or should I just call it a wash?" Moffitt stared at his food.

"Well," said Troy, "I don't think any of us tried the white stuff."

"Do you know what it is?" Moffitt picked up some on his spoon and sniffed at it. "Do you know what it is?" he repeated. "Seems very sticky."

"Pudding?" John guessed. "I don't rightly know and I wasn't feeling brave enough to find out."

Moffitt put his spoon down. "Nor do I think am I." He picked up the bread again. "Seems a bit stale, but at least I do know what it is."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Moffitt."

"It's bread. How dangerous could it be?" With effort, Moffitt took a bite and started to chew.

Troy watched him, remembering Hitch's warning.

"For Christ's sake!" Moffitt suddenly exclaimed. His hand went to his jaw.

"I told you not to do that, Moffitt," John said mildly.

Moffitt gave him an evil look. Putting his napkin up to his mouth, he spit the bread out.

And judging from the flash of gold Troy saw, apparently some of his dental work along with it. "You okay, Moffitt?"

"No, I'm not, thanks." Moffitt held up what was indeed a gold filling. "I suppose a visit to the dental truck is in order now." He tentatively ran his tongue around the back of his mouth. "There's a hole the size of a crater back there." He continued his exploration and then suddenly jumped like someone had given him an electric shock.

"Hit a nerve?" asked Troy, sympathetically.

"Definitely feels like there's something exposed. Back uppermost right molar, I've had nothing but trouble with it for ages. Should have just had the damned thing pulled last time it was bothering me."

"Well, you'd better get it taken care of soon. We're probably going to be out in the field any day now for no telling how long." Troy shook his head. "You'll have enough to worry about without nursing a bad tooth."

Moffitt slipped the filling into his shirt pocket before getting up. "Yes, I suppose you're right, Troy. I should go get that taken care of while there's still some opportunity."

Before he left, Moffitt said something that Troy didn't understand. John apparently did. He responded verbally and then touched his brow in a salute.

Troy frowned. "What was all that?"

"Oh, Moffitt was interested in our language, so I've been teaching it to him. He's picking it right up. Said that it was very similar in pattern to something else that I guess he already speaks." John lit another cigarette and then offered Troy one. "How many languages does that guy know, anyway?"

"German, Spanish, French, Italian, some of the native Arab dialects, and a few languages that no one even speaks any more. Plus, I'm sure that I'm missing some." Troy blew a thoughtful series of smoke rings. "His English could use some work sometimes, though."

John laughed. "I'm sure that he'd say the same about us."

* * *

"You coming to dinner, Moffitt?" Troy asked.

Moffitt was laying on his cot with one arm flung over his eyes and the other cradling his jaw. "Perhaps never again," he said in a voice that would have told Troy that the guy was in pain, even if he hadn't already known.

Troy made a sympathetic noise and came sit on the trunk that sat beside of Moffitt's bed. "Hurt that bad?"

"Yes."

"Didn't they give you something for the pain?" Troy was withholding at least some sympathy as he suspected that Moffitt had chosen not to take anything. It wouldn't have been out of character for the guy.

"Nothing to give." Moffitt made a frustrated noise. "There's an alarming lack of supplies around, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Sorry, Moffitt. Want me to bring you anything back?"

"Ice."

"Good luck on that one. You know what they say about people in hell . . ."

"Eh." Moffitt closed his eyes. "I do."

Troy laid a hand on Moffitt's shoulder. "Get some rest, Moffitt, I'll be back in a half hour. Less, if dinner looks anything like lunch."

"I would say, 'enjoy,' but that would just sound nasty."

Grinning, Troy got up and left their tent.

* * *

Outside, Hitch, Tully, McAfferty, Lewis, Taylor, and Jones came up to Troy.

"Hey, fellows," Troy said to them. "How was the game?"

Hitch beamed. "I hit two home runs, Sarge!"

"And I got two outs," Tully added.

For some reason, Troy felt as ridiculously proud of their accomplishments on the baseball field as he would have on the battlefield. "Nice job! You all win?"

"Yep," said Tully. "10 to 4."

"Where is Moffitt?" Hitch looked around. "I haven't seen him all day."

"He's not feeling so hot," Troy told them.

"What's the matter with him?" Tully asked, concerned about his partner. "He all right?"

John winced. "Bad trip to the dentist?"

"Yeah. He had to have that tooth pulled. Guess it was pretty rough." Troy gestured to his own jaw. "Looks like he has a baseball in his mouth, actually."

"Huh," said Jones. "I saw him this morning when he was on his way to see Chief. He looked fine then."

"He was," said John. "Until he had lunch. Moffitt lost a fight with a piece of bread."

McAfferty shook his head. "Well, that's some bad luck."

"I ain't really surprised," said Lewis as they walked into the mess tent.

Troy raised his eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, he drew that hand, didn't he? We all know that's bad luck." Lewis shrugged and then picked up a tray. "Dead man's hand. He'll be lucky if that's all that happens to him."

"Daniel, that's enough," said John to Lewis, once again sounding like the father figure that Troy knew he was to his boys. "No one here wants to hear that. Superstitions are a sign of ignorance. And you know that I can't tolerate that."

Lewis stopped filling his tray and looked at John in surprise. "But Chief, you can't tell me that didn't make your skin crawl when you saw it?"

"No," John said. "It was an unusual draw, that's all."

Lewis looked to Tully for help. "Tully, your people believe in omens, right?"

Tully looked at Lewis. "Yeah. They do. Don't know how much I believe them, though. I believe in me." He looked to Troy. "In us. We make our own luck."

"Good answer, Tully." Troy heard grumbling and looked at the line that forming behind them. "Let's shake it, we're making the natives restless. And that could lead to some very bad luck. For us. Keep moving, Lewis."

* * *

Dinner was worse than lunch. It wasn't lost on Troy that even the boys didn't finish their meals.

"Well," said Tully, sticking an after dinner matchstick in his mouth. "I guess I'll go see how Moffitt's doing."

"Me too," said Hitch. "Though, I could have told him not to eat the bread."

Troy shook his head in warning. "I don't think I'd mention that if I were you, Hitch."

"Sergeant Troy!"

Troy looked up. There was a young lieutenant standing at the end of their table.

Troy got up and saluted. He recognized the guy as Boggs' newest clerk. "Lieutenant Marshall."

"Major wants to see you on the double," Marshall said. "Sorry to interrupt your dinner."

"Well, I think that I was done here before I started, anyway." Troy looked at his mostly untouched tray. "You guys getting any better chow than the rest of us, Lieutenant?"

"I won't lie." Marshall smiled. "Being an officer does have some perks. But at the moment, that's not one of them, Sergeant."

* * *

Boggs sat behind his same old desk. He might have new oak leaves on his shoulders, thought Troy, but other than that, everything else was just as it ever was.

"Sir!" Troy saluted. "Lieutenant Marshall said that you wanted to see me?"

Boggs returned the salute. "At ease, Troy. Yes, that's right. I did want to see you." Boggs got up from his desk and came around to sit on the front of it. "I'm sure that you've noticed the general state of the camp, Troy?"

"Sir?"

"The food, for starters?"

Troy couldn't help but to make a face. "Yes, sir. It's the worst that I've ever seen it."

"Yes, I know and it pains me greatly. An army travels on its stomach. And if things were to continue like this, we wouldn't be travelling far."

"Yes, sir."

"Operation Sandstorm will commence in only a few days, Troy. If we don't get some fresh supplies in here, we're not going to make it that long." Boggs crossed his arms and shook his head in disgust. "Hell, I'm worried that our guys will start turning themselves over to the Germans just to get a decent meal."

Troy, who had been a guest of the Germans more times than he could count, thought about their food. It was pretty awful. But, even boiled potatoes were edible. That was more than he could say for his dinner.

"Good news is, we have supplies on the way. Enough to more than feed the expanded size of the camp for at least another two weeks or more." Boggs was still frowning. "And other supplies as well. I probably don't have to tell you how badly they're needed."

Troy nodded, thinking back to how he'd left Moffitt, in pain for lack of even an aspirin. Troy would be happy to lend himself to any cause that would improve things for everyone.

And based on the way that Boggs was looking at him, he had a sneaking suspicion that the old man wanted just that.

"Let me guess, sir? There's bad news?" Troy asked.

"Isn't there always, Troy? Wouldn't be a war if things were easy, would it?"

Troy grinned at the truth of the Major's statement. "What can we do to make things better, sir?"

"I need for you and your boys to go out at first light tomorrow morning and escort the supply convoy to camp. We don't expect many issues from our Wehrmacht friends, but I don't want to take any chances." Boggs got a map out and rolled it flat upon the surface of his desk.

"Understood. How many trucks?"

"Thirty or so."

Troy whistled, surprised. "They stuck?"

"You could say that. They're right here."

Troy squinted at the map where Boggs was pointing. "Um, sir? Unless I've missed something, that's behind German lines."

"You haven't missed anything, Troy. Did I forget to mention that they took a wrong turn?" Boggs was barely hiding a smile.

"Maybe you did, sir. How did they end up there? Isn't the supply route pretty clearly marked?"

"Main supply route was obstructed. They decided to take an alternate route."

"That's an alternate route, all right." Troy shook his head. "Their compasses broken?"

"Who knows if they even knew how to read one? My understanding is that they're all pretty green. They're not hardly the A team. Or, even the B team."

Troy didn't even know what to say.

"Thankfully they were smart enough to radio in when they went off course."

"I guess that's something."

"When we figured out where they had ended up, we told them to stay put for the night."

"I see." Troy thought about the task that Boggs was giving them. At the best, it was going to be hard to accomplish. At the worst, it was going to be like trying to get a herd of elephants through the eye of a needle. "How much German activity is out there?"

"Some. Fair amount, actually, last report we had." Boggs regarded Troy. "Quite the challenge isn't it?"

"Well." Troy cocked his head and put his hands on his hips. "If it was easy, it wouldn't be a war, would it, sir?"

Boggs let the smile that he had been hiding loose and clapped Troy on the shoulder. "If it was easy, it wouldn't be a job for the Rat Patrol, would it, Troy?"


	3. A Kipper in a Tin

As daunting as the task that Boggs had given them was, Troy was actually looking forward to doing something.

Looking around the tent at his assembled team, he had the sneaking suspicion that the others felt the same way. Even Moffitt had perked up, his mind now on something besides his aching jaw.

"We'll leave at first light," Troy told them.

"Just us?" Hitch asked, giving Tully a sideways look.

"Nope. Boggs is going to send some tanks." Troy lit a cigarette and nodded over at John. "Sergeant Twofish and his platoon will be accompanying us. What do you say, John? Is it a date?"

"Sam, I thought that you'd never ask." John grinned.

Troy laughed. "Just like old times, right, Chief?"

"Well, let's hope this time's not like the last time . . ." John raised his eyebrows.

"It won't be." Troy shot a look at Hitch and then looked back at John. "Trust me."

"Good. I felt real bad about all that, you know."

"I didn't exactly feel too great afterwards, either."

Troy grimaced at the memory. The last time he'd been out with John and his team, he'd had a green driver who had thought that it was a good idea to drive directly into the path of a very large and very hard to stop tank. It hadn't been pretty and Troy had the scars to show for it.

Moffitt and the others looked at Troy expectantly, obviously waiting for the details. Troy didn't feel like obliging. He set his mouth in a thin line and looked back at them, daring them to ask.

"Well, then. Back to the matter at hand." Moffitt knew Troy well enough to know that there was going to be no story to be had. "So, Sergeant Twofish and the other tanks will provide firepower if needed and we'll run point to clear the way ahead and to keep trouble from coming up behind."

"You got it, Moffitt," Troy confirmed.

Moffitt studied the map intently, chewing his lip.

Troy leaned over, trying to figure out what Moffitt was looking at. "What's up?"

"You know, even though it's not marked, there's another way back through here." Moffitt traced a line with his finger. "It gets us behind our lines more quickly than the originally suggested route would."

Troy smothered his initial response to Moffitt's suggestion. He was all for getting them back into friendly territory as fast as he could and if Moffitt said that they could do it, he'd follow his direction. Moffitt hadn't steered them wrong for a long time.

Instead, Troy nodded. "Sounds like a plan." He looked around at the assembled group. "Everyone know what we're doing?"

"Yeah. We're going to have to forfeit." Hitch popped a bubble and looked glum.

"What?" Moffitt asked.

"Yeah. So much for baseball, huh?"

"Baseball? There is a war on, Hitch," Moffitt said. "Remember?"

"Huh. No kidding, Moffitt." Hitch rolled his eyes. "I'd forgotten why I was in Africa."

"Well, let's hope you haven't forgotten how to drive," Tully responded.

"You can't forget it a talent, Tully. It's something you're born with." Hitch gave a cocky grin.

"Uh huh." Tully put a matchstick in his mouth.

Still grinning, Hitch rose. "Well, Tully, I guess we'd better go check the Jeeps out. After a week of no action, who knows what's crawled up in the engines?"

Tully nodded and moved to follow Hitch out of the tent and to the motor pool.

"I'll go spread the word to my guys. I'm sure that they'll be real broken up too that the game was called on account of the war. We'll need to do some prep, too." John got up and then offered Troy his hand. "We'll see you boys bright and early, Sam."

Troy shook John's hand. "Sounds good."

When everyone had left, Troy looked at Moffitt who had once again gone back to studying the map.

"You okay, Moffitt?" Troy asked, concerned. Moffitt still sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles, and it wasn't lost on Troy that Moffitt had been unconsciously rubbing his sore jaw. "You could sit this one out, you know."

"Not a chance, Troy. What I wouldn't give to have a decent meal." Moffitt gave Troy a lopsided grin. "I'd have to be a dead man not to want to lend a hand towards that end."

As soon as Moffitt's words registered, inexplicably, Troy's mouth went dry. He thought back to what Lewis had said in the chow line. In his mind's eye, Troy could see the aces and eights laid out on the table . . .

He suddenly felt a concern for Moffitt that he couldn't have named if he'd tried.

"Troy?" Moffitt asked. "You look like you've seen the very end. Everything all right?"

"Yeah, Moffitt, everything's fine." Troy took a deep breath and then lit another cigarette. "Just thinking, that's all."

Moffitt nodded. "If you're up to it, you'll have to tell me what happened the last time you were out with Sergeant Twofish. Must not have been all that pleasant a memory?"

Troy realized that Moffitt had guessed, incorrectly, what he had been thinking.

And Troy wasn't about to correct him.

* * *

The next morning gave promise to be clear and fair.

Perfect day for a drive, Troy thought to himself.

When he arrived at the motor pool, he was met with the familiar and welcome sight of Hitch, Tully, and Moffitt buzzing around the Jeeps, loading supplies, checking the guns, and doing a final once over of the vehicles.

"We good to go?" Troy asked.

"Yep, Sarge. We're all good," Tully said.

"Well then, let's shake it. We'll drive over and meet up with John and the tanks." Troy slid into his seat beside of Hitch and watched as Moffitt and Tully also mounted up. Satisfied, Troy nodded to Hitch.

They drove the short distance to where the tanks were parked. Troy hopped out and went over to John. Moffitt followed him.

"Ready?" Troy asked John.

"We're missing a guy. From Iggy's crew." He frowned at Troy. "Driver. We need him or else we're going to be one tank short." John looked around. "There he is. Patterson, get over here!" John yelled.

Patterson increased his pace to a fast trot. Troy noticed when the kid stopped before them that Patterson looked a little green around the gills.

"You okay, Patterson?" John asked, concerned.

"Yeah, I think so, Chief. I'm not feeling so good. I think it was something that I ate at dinner last night." The boy put his hand to his stomach. "But I'm better now."

"For goodness sakes." Moffitt sighed and put a hand to his jaw. "How many more casualties is the mess going to amass before this is done?"

John put his hand on Patterson's shoulder. "You sure you're okay, son?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Chief," Patterson insisted. "I've never missed a mission, you know that. Not going to start now."

"All right." John handed him his canteen. "Drink plenty of water, okay?"

"Yes, Chief."

"Go on now. Tell Iggy that I'm not mad at you for being late."

"Thanks, Chief."

John watched Patterson lope over to his crew. He turned to Troy. "All present and accounted for, Sam. Finally. Ready to move out?"

"Ready and willing," Troy responded. He looked at Moffitt. "Good?"

"Good." Moffitt nodded. He raised a hand to John and said something.

John also raised his hand and responded.

Moffitt smiled, said something else and went back to his Jeep.

Troy didn't understand a word that they said, but figured that Moffitt again had used John's native language. "He's really gotten good at that, huh?"

"Yeah," John said. "Scary good, actually. Speaking like a native. No pun intended. Guy's definitely got a talent."

Troy looked back at where Moffitt was checking his .50. "Best second I've ever had."

"And that's saying something." John was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at Troy. "Maybe you should tell him that when you have the opportunity?"

Troy felt a little incredulous. "You think that he doesn't know?"

John shrugged. "Not sure. What I do know is that we all too often take for granted what people know and what they don't, Sam."

As usual, John's advice was good. It occurred to Troy that as many times as he'd thought what he'd said to John, he hadn't ever told Moffitt the same thing. At least in not so many words.

Hell, thought Troy, probably in no words. He could admit that he was hardly the warm and fuzzy type.

"Take care of yourself and your boys, my friend." John touched his forehead in a salute.

Troy returned the gesture. "You too, Chief."

Troy watched as John clambered up his tank. When John gave the move out sign to the group, Troy went back to his Jeep and Hitch. He nodded to Hitch as he slid into his seat. Hitch nodded back and they rolled out.

The tanks followed Hitch and Troy. Moffitt and Tully brought up the rear.

It was a slower ride than what Troy was used to, but it was an easy one. Even when they crossed over the lines, there were no signs of the Germans.

By late morning, they had reached the location of the supply trucks.

Troy was gratified to see that while the trucks hadn't done a great job of navigating their route, whoever their leader was had been smart enough to find them a good place to hide.

They were in a canyon of sorts, one way in and one way out. It was a good safe place. The ridges surrounding it offered a good vantage point for keeping watch. Not that Troy knew what the supply truck drivers would have done if a bunch of German's had been coming right at them. But, at least they would have had advance notice and plenty of time to panic.

The stranded drivers had definitely seen their rescue crew rolling up. The guys who had been on watch were running down the ridge and whooping in celebration, effectively leaving the convoy, Troy, and the tanks without a line of site.

"Where did they get these guys?" While Boggs had mentioned that this crew wasn't the A team, Troy would have graded them an F. He'd skin his guys alive for leaving a watch position unless ordered. "Hitch, you and Tully and take watch while we get this crew sorted out."

"You got it, Sarge." Hitch watched in amazement as the convoy drivers danced around. "Well, at least they're happy to see us."

Troy snorted.

Moffitt and Tully pulled up beside of Troy and Hitch. "Bloody idiots," said Moffitt, shaking his head. "Good thing we came along when we did."

"Yeah. And good thing this area doesn't seem hot anymore," agreed Troy.

Moffitt nodded. "No more trouble than we saw on the way in, they likely could have made it out themselves."

Troy watched as the celebration continued. These guys were idiots, he thought. He frowned at Moffitt.

"Well," Moffitt reconsidered, "perhaps not."

"Should we go find whoever's in charge and get these guys ready to move out?" Troy asked, climbing out of his Jeep.

Moffitt nodded.

They went looking for the most senior member of the convoy. They found a very lost looking lieutenant

Troy saluted him. "Sergeant Sam Troy, sir. And Sergeant Jack Moffitt. Major Boggs sent us to get you out of here."

The lieutenant saluted back with enthusiasm. "Boy, are we glad to see you!"

"We hadn't noticed, sir." Troy hid his smile by lighting a cigarette

The lieutenant stuck out his hand to Troy. "Lieutenant Mike Carver, nice to meet you Sergeants Troy and Moffitt."

Troy shook Carver's hand. Troy noticed how pale it was compared to his sun ravaged skin. "New to the desert, Lieutenant?" Troy asked.

"Not exactly, but I'm new to this. I've been working in supply chain logistics." Carver looked around at the line of trucks parked ahead of him and behind him. "Until now, that is. None of us have really ever been out in the field before. Most of our other convoy teams have been deployed to support the larger mission."

"Explains it," Moffitt muttered, just loudly enough for Troy to hear.

Troy grinned. "Don't worry, Lieutenant, we'll get you back behind your desk in no time."

* * *

They weren't as far away from the Allied lines as Troy had originally estimated, particularly after using Moffitt's shortcut. He counted it as a blessing. It was also good fortune that they had been rolling along slowly for quite some time and there was little or no sign of the German army.

It puzzled Troy as Boggs' had made it sound like the Krauts were active in the area. But again, Moffitt's alternate route was probably to thank for the lack of enemy traffic. As they bounced along ahead of the convoy, Troy allowed himself to think back to the advice that John had given them.

Yep, thought Troy with a smile, when they got back, he was going to buy Moffitt a beer or two and tell him how much he appreciated him.

And then, one minute Troy was thinking about beer, and then the next he was hearing explosions.

God damn war, Troy thought.

The Jeep turned a hard right, racing back towards from where the noise was coming.

Holding on tight, Troy turned to Hitch. "What the hell was that?"

"Sounds like Germans causing trouble, Sarge." Hitch narrowed his eyes against the dust that had been kicked up.

Troy couldn't disagree, so he climbed up to man the .50. He noticed that John was out of the hatch of his tank directing his group. Most of the tanks stayed in formation, moving along with the supply convoy, while John's tank and one other went off in the same direction as Troy and Hitch.

The firing came again.

Troy realized that it was above them. "Hitch!"

Understanding, Hitch swerved and swung out wide, so that Troy would have the best angle to lay several rounds in the direction of the top of the rocks. Troy knew that his target was almost at the maximum range of the big gun. He wondered if he was just wasting his ammo but eventually, the attack from the ridge stopped.

Troy squinted above them, trying to determine if their attackers had any reinforcements. He couldn't see any. Slipping into the passenger seat, Troy nudged Hitch. "Let's go see if there's any damage to the herd."

Hitch snapped his gum and nodded, slowing down as they drove down the line, truck by truck. Everyone seemed to be rolling right along, many of the drivers smiling and waving to Troy and Hitch as they drove by.

When they reached the end of the line and were satisfied that all of the trucks were still in good enough shape to roll on with the convey Hitch pulled up beside of the other Jeep.

"What do you think that was, Moffitt?" Troy yelled.

"Scouting party, likely very surprised at what they saw." Moffitt looked back at where the vehicles sat. "Think any of them are still alive?"

At the range at which he'd fired at them, Troy couldn't be sure. He did know that they had stopped firing at them. He shook his head and shrugged.

"Well, we should probably go check. I'd hate to think that any of them were in any shape to report back that they'd seen us."

"You volunteering, Moffitt?"

Moffitt nodded and said something to Tully. "Won't be a moment, Troy," Moffitt said before Tully turned direction and went back the way that they had come.

Troy wasn't sure if Moffitt and Tully breaking from the pack was such a great idea or not, but really, it made sense. Their Jeep could go up the ridge and back a dozen times and still catch up with the relatively slow moving convey. Troy sighed and picked up the radio receiver.

"Chief, come in, Chief. Over."

In a moment the response came. "Chief here, Troy. Everything all right? Over."

"Yeah, everyone looks to be fine. Moffitt and Tully went up to the ridge to check things out. Hitch and I are going to sit back here and ride tail. Over."

"Understood. We'll move to the front. Over and out."

Troy nodded at Hitch. Hitch fell further back to take up the place at the very rear of the convoy, which had slowed even more with the big tank leading the way. Troy lit a cigarette to help ease the wait until Moffitt and Tully could join back up with them.

By the time he'd finished and was contemplating lighting another, Troy heard the sound of the other Jeep approaching. When they caught up, he looked to Moffitt. "Well?"

"One was alive when we found him. Though, he's not any more, I'm afraid," Moffitt answered. "He did see fit to tell us that company is likely on its way."

Troy swore. "Well, that's just peachy, isn't it?"

"Quite."

"Do you know where they're coming from?"

"Well, before he . . . expired, the sergeant did share what he could. Based on what he told us, I'd say that we have a half hour head start on them. Coming in from the east."

"How far are we from our lines?"

Moffitt squinted at the horizon. "I'd say about two hours' drive. At this current rate, could be more. Could we speed things up?"

Troy considered. "Tanks only go so fast you know."

"You don't say, Troy? Really I had no idea." Moffitt pulled a face, reminding Troy of exactly what type of unit Moffitt had been with before he had joined up with them. "You should try the ride inside of one. It's like being a very slow kipper in a tin."

"You saying that you don't miss it?" Troy grinned.

"That is exactly what I'm saying." Moffitt grinned back. "I prefer the open air any day."

The tanks, while offering protection, were slowing things down, Troy thought. If what the German soldier had told Moffitt was true, the other Germans would be coming in from behind them.

"Hey, Moffitt, we could leave the tanks in the dust. They could take on anything that came after them, right?"

"True," Moffitt agreed. "With the added benefit that they would slow down our pursuers and provide a potential diversion. As the most important thing is that we get these trucks back to our base, I'd say that it was a very sound plan indeed, Troy."

Hitch snorted. "And who's going to cover us?"

Tully gave him a slow grin. "Since when did we need cover?"


	4. Nothing but Time

Troy told John about their plan. John agreed that it was the best chance that they had. Without the tanks, the trucks and the Jeeps could cover three times as much ground.

The only thing that Troy didn't like was that without the support of John's group, his team was the only thing standing in between the convoy and any other trouble that might come up. It was a gamble, but with the knowledge of the certainty of attack and the possibility of one that grew less every mile that they travelled, Troy knew that they didn't have a choice.

The trucks running at speed left the tanks literally in the desert dust. Moffitt and Tully had again fallen back to the rear and Troy and Hitch once again took their place at the front.

The miles felt like they were literally flying by and with each one, Troy breathed a little easier. By his calculations, they were less than a half hour from their lines.

The radio crackled into life. "Troy, you still out there, over?"

"Troy here, Chief. You guys still okay? Over."

"No sign of our German friends. Yet. Over."

Troy breathed a sigh of relief. At this point, he estimated, the convoy was probably going to make it into their camp without any kind of trouble. The tanks still might not be so lucky, he knew.

"We do have a problem, though. Over."

"What kind of problem? Over." Troy asked. He shared a look with Hitch. So much for avoiding trouble, Troy thought. They should have known better.

"It's Patterson." John's sigh was audible even in all of the static. "He's in bad shape. Over."

Troy frowned, trying to remember who Patterson was. He honestly didn't know how John kept all of those guys straight.

"The guy that was sick this morning, Sarge. The one that was late?" Hitch supplied. "Driver of one of the tanks."

With the reminder, Troy remembered. "What's the situation? Over."

"Passed out. Barely breathing, weak pulse. Dehydrated, I'm sure, at the very least. Gets as hot as hell in these tin buckets. And I don't have anyone to spell him without robbing another crew. Over."

"Just great," Troy muttered to Hitch. There was still the possibility that the Germans were going to end up catching up John and his boys, and Troy knew that a tank with an inexperienced driver and a short crew would be an easy target.

"What now, Sarge?" asked Hitch. "We can go pick up the guy and get him back to base sooner, but that doesn't really solve all of our problems, does it?"

No, thought Troy, it didn't. Concentrating on a finding a solution, Troy didn't notice that Tully and Moffitt and had joined them at the front of the line.

"Troy!" shouted Moffitt. He was hanging over the side of the Jeep, trying to get Troy's attention. "Tully and I will go back and get the boy."

"Yeah?" Troy yelled. "And then what?"

"And then, I'll see to the tank."

Troy considered. John hadn't seen any Krauts yet. The convoy was close enough to their lines that Troy figured that they weren't going to encounter any trouble. Moffitt's solution was probably the best answer to their problem.

"You sure?" Troy asked, vividly remembering that not more than a few hours before that Moffitt had been talking about how much that he disliked being in a tank.

"Piece of cake," replied Moffitt.

Still Troy hesitated. He asked himself why as all logic pointed to Moffitt's idea being the best solution. But still, there was something in Troy's gut that was making him uncertain. Cursing himself, Troy realized what it was. He was just being as superstitious and ignorant as Lewis.

Despite his self-realization, Troy asked again: "You sure, Moffitt?"

"It's only for a few hours. It's not lasting until the end of the war. I think that I'll survive a bit of time in a tank." Moffitt grinned. "Just don't think that I'll be asking for a reassignment any time soon."

"Okay, Moffitt," Troy agreed. "Tully, as soon as you pick up Patterson, get back here double time."

Tully touched his forehead in acknowledgement.

"Moffitt, we'll see you at camp."

Moffitt nodded and waved as Tully turned the other Jeep in the direction from where they had come.

Troy picked up the radio receiver. "Hold on, Chief. Help is on its way. Over."

"Thanks, Sam," John responded. "We'll be on the lookout. Over."

Troy lit a cigarette. "Hitch, drop to the rear." If there was going to be any trouble, Troy knew that most likely it was going to come from that way.

Hitch looked doubtful.

"What?"

Hitch shrugged. "You think that lieutenant is going to be able to find camp without us to show him the way?"

"All the guy has to do is follow the road." Troy rubbed his forehead. "I think that he'll be okay."

"Isn't that all he had to do the first time?"

Troy opened his mouth to respond but found he couldn't argue that point. He didn't even try.

"Drop to the rear, Hitch." Troy glared at the boy, daring him to argue.

Smart kid that he was, Hitch's raised eyebrow was his only response before he did as he was told.

* * *

The convoy managed to get back into Allied territory without any further incidents. And despite the fact that Troy and Hitch had had to take the lead again to actually get them back to the camp, they made record time.

To Hitch's credit, his only comment had been to politely wonder if the lieutenant was going to need their help to get him back to his desk.

Troy gave the Hitch the response that his question deserved. He had punched him in the arm.

Despite the slight detour, the convoy had rolled in to a hero's welcome with every man, every truck and every payload intact. Troy received even more good news when Tully met up with them to share that the young corporal that he had brought back with him was resting comfortably in the infirmary. John's diagnosis of severe dehydration had been accurate. The kid would be all right, thanks to Tully.

"Good day at the war, wasn't it, Troy?" Lieutenant Carver asked as they watch the men unloading the trucks. He offered Troy a cigarette.

Troy thanked Carver and took the cigarette. "Shaping up that way, sir," he answered cautiously, his eyes on the horizon.

It would be a good day, Troy decided, when Moffitt, John, and the tanks made it back in one piece.

* * *

Lieutenant Marshall appeared at the opening of the tent. "Major Boggs?"

Boggs barely looked up from the notes that he had taken during Troy's account of the afternoon's activities. "Marshall? Can it wait? We'll be done here in a few more minutes."

"Actually, sir, I think that you'll want to hear this now," Marshall said. He took a step inside of the tent and saw Troy. He stopped short and hesitated.

An expression had settled on Marshall's face that Troy couldn't read but that even so, he knew that he didn't like.

Troy glanced at Boggs. "I can go if you like, sir."

"You can go when we're done, Troy. And I decide when we're done." Boggs put down his pen. "What is it, Marshall? Whatever you are going to say to me, you can say in front of the Sergeant."

"Major . . ." Marshall wavered. "Perhaps I'll come back."

Boggs shared a look with Troy. Then he turned his attention back to his adjutant. "Now, Marshall."

Marshall cleared his throat. "We've received a report from Sergeant Twofish."

Troy's stomach unexpectedly dropped and the back of his neck prickled. Leaning forward in his seat, Troy waited for what Marshall had to say.

"And? I don't have all afternoon, Marshall," Boggs prompted.

"They encountered a German Panzer group about twenty-five miles away from our lines. Based on Sergeant Twofish's report, they pretty squarely took care of the Germans," Marshall reported.

"Good." Boggs nodded with satisfaction. "Any casualties on our side?"

"Very minimal, sir."

Troy realized that he had been holding his breath. He exhaled. Then he looked at Marshall. Any relief that Troy had felt was again replaced by the same feeling of foreboding that he had been trying to shake all day.

"And what does minimal mean to you, son?" Boggs asked.

"They lost a tank. They're assuming that the entire crew is dead. Six men, sir." Marshall looked down.

"Well, that's a damn shame, Marshall." Boggs, too, bowed his head.

"Yes, sir. It is."

"But, it could have been much worse. Good plan to let Twofish's outfit take up the rear, Troy. You probably saved every truck in the convoy with that move." Boggs looked at Troy. "And saved Operation Sandstorm to boot. Six men is a hell of a price to pay, but they gave their lives for a much bigger thing."

Barely hearing Boggs' praise, Troy locked eyes with Marshall. "Lieutenant, we left Moffitt out there with the tank platoon. He's okay, right?"

But before he had even asked Troy had known the answer to his question. It explained a lot, thought Troy, particularly why Marshal was acting so shifty.

It took Marshall more than a moment to answer. And when he did, the words came out with a stammer. "Troy, I'm so sorry to tell you this, but Sergeant Moffitt was part of the tank crew that was lost. He's presumed dead along with the others."

"Presumed dead?" Troy narrowed his eyes at Marshall, daring the lieutenant to look away again. "What the hell does 'presumed' mean?"

Marshall held Troy's gaze, even if he did take an involuntary step back. "Exactly what I said."

Troy took a moment to shore up his composure. After all, how many times had they thought before that Moffitt was a goner, only to have the guy pull through, or to show up again where they had least expected?

"But you don't know," Troy said quietly, willing himself to stay calm.

"That's right. I just don't know." Marshall sighed. "The report indicated that Moffitt and the rest the tank's crew could be dead, Troy. It just wasn't confirmed."

"Could be dead?" Troy resisted the urge to education Marshall on the difference between dead and could be dead. It was more than just semantics.

"At least captured," Marshall amended hastily.

"What are you doing to confirm any of it? Are you doing anything?" Troy felt himself getting hot again. If Moffitt was still alive, they wouldn't even know. And by the time that they got around to knowing anything, even if he was still alive now, Moffitt could well be dead.

In a moment, Troy was out of his chair and standing at the edge of the Boggs' desk. "Major Boggs, requesting permission to go look for Moffitt and the rest of that tank crew."

"You know that's a stupid idea, Troy. Permission denied," Boggs said mildly. He turned his attention to his adjutant. "Marshall, how far out is Sergeant Twofish?"

"Sergeant Twofish and his platoon should be back in camp within the hour. Hopefully, they can tell us exactly what happened." Marshall sighed with regret. "I just know what the communications officer told me, Troy. I really don't know anything else."

Troy rounded on Marshall, his hands balled into fists. "Yeah, you don't know anything do you, Lieutenant?"

"Sit down, Sergeant Troy. You don't get to shoot the messenger," Boggs ordered. "Marshall, you're dismissed. Let me know when Sergeant Twofish is back. I'll want to debrief him myself. Hopefully, he'll have something more useful to tell me. But send him Sergeant Troy's way first, okay?"

"Yes, sir." Marshall saluted and beat a hasty retreat.

Boggs shook his head as he watched Marshall go. Then, he looked at Troy. "Troy, I know that you've got a lot on your mind right now, but let's just finish up here, shall we?" Boggs picked up his pen again. "You've got nothing but time until Twofish and his men get back."

Troy couldn't disagree even as much as he wanted to. Boggs was right. The sun would be down within the hour. Even if John confirmed that there was a chance that Moffitt might still be alive, Troy couldn't even go out and look for him until the next morning.

There was nothing that he could do but wait. Troy hated waiting. But hate it as he did, Troy found himself completely dependent upon the slow crawl of the hands around the face of his watch. Troy could admit when he was beaten by something over which he had zero control. He crossed his arms against his chest and nodded.

"Yes, sir," Troy told Boggs, "I got nothing but time."

* * *

Troy had finished debriefing with Boggs. It hadn't taken nearly as long to finish as he had hoped that it would.

It had still left him with a good thirty minutes before John and the other tanks showed up. Troy tried to go lie down, but found that he couldn't stay still. He spent the next half hour alternately smoking and pacing. By the time he saw John, Troy was doing both at the same time.

John walked over to Troy, his helmet in his hand. "Hey, Sam. I heard that you were waiting for me."

Troy took John's arm and led him into the tent. "What the hell happened out there, John?" Troy motioned for John to sit on Moffitt's bunk. Troy sat down on Moffitt's foot locker. "Is Moffitt . . . ?" Troy couldn't find it in himself to say the word.

"I don't know, Sam. I wish I did."

"So what happened?"

"Bad luck, that's what it was. We were rolling along just fine when Moffitt's tank reported a mechanical failure. We circled it to protect it while they stopped to check it out. And then, wouldn't you know it?"

"The Germans showed up," Troy answered. "Damn Krauts have a lousy sense of timing."

"That's exactly what happened. We tried to keep tight around the tank, but the damn Germans just kept coming. We had to break the formation just to fight them. Couldn't just stay there like sitting ducks, you know." John ran a hand down his face, leaving long streaks in the grime that covered it. "There really wasn't anything else that we could do."

"I know, John." Troy thought about everything that John had told him. "But you don't necessarily think that they crew of that tank was dead?"

"I don't know what to think. Couldn't get close enough at the end to tell for sure." John's forehead creased deeply. "I wanted to go back, but I couldn't risk the other tanks. Or my own tank and crew."

"I understand." Troy put a hand on John's shoulder. After all, thought Troy, the Chief was worried about five of his own, and Moffitt to boot. John was bearing a huge burden, bigger than even Troy's own. "I'm sorry."

"So am I. But this is what I know for sure, Sam. I didn't actually see the Germans kill anyone. I did see smoke coming from the tank, so it was on fire, and that's potentially a very deadly situation. But I didn't see it blow. In short, I didn't see anything at all that would have led me to believe that Moffitt and the crew of that tank are dead. But . . ." John's voice trailed off.

"But what?" Troy leaned forward, waiting.

John sighed. "But in all honesty, I didn't really see anything that confirmed that those guys are still alive, either."


	5. Learning to Swim

Troy knew that most officers said that the hardest thing that they ever had to do was to write letters to the families of their men who were killed in action.

If you asked Troy, he would have said that looking the men in the eye that had fought with side by side with someone and telling them that their comrade was dead, or might be dead, was far worse than writing a letter to people that he would never see.

Tully had sat silently while Troy had shared the news of Moffitt's unknown status. At the end of Troy's speech, he had merely nodded and then left the tent "to go get some fresh air."

Hitch, in contrast, had very vocally wanted to fight about why it couldn't be true. Then, when that wore off, Hitch was ready to rush out into the dead of the night to go looking for Moffitt.

Troy was hardly surprised at their reactions. They were pretty much the same as the ones that he had had.

By the time Tully came back, Hitch had quieted down, fiercely chewing his gum while he stared at the canvas of the tent.

"You okay, Tully?" Troy asked.

"Yeah, I guess so." Tully looked at Hitch who had barely shifted when Tully had come into the tent. "You all okay?"

Troy shrugged and looked at Hitch. "I think that we're as okay as we can be."

Tully sat down on his bunk. "We're going to look for Moffitt tomorrow, aren't we, Sarge?"

Troy hesitated. There had been rumors that Operation Sandstorm was finally going to start moving the next day. He had his doubts about whether Boggs would let them go anywhere.

"Sarge?" Tully asked again, his eyes searching Troy's face.

"Of course we are, Tully," said Troy. And he decided that regardless of what Boggs said, they would. They'd waited for weeks for Sandstorm. It could wait a few hours for them.

"And we'll find him," Hitch said confidently. "I know that we will. Moffitt's out there somewhere, alive. I can feel it."

Troy didn't say anything.

Instead, he thought back to how he had wanted to stop Moffitt from joining that tank crew. He remembered the strong sense of foreboding that had settled on him the night before. But despite that, Troy had said and done nothing to stop Moffitt.

If had said something, if he had ordered Moffitt not to do it, then . . .

But, Troy wondered, what was he supposed to do?

What would have happened if he had said no, Troy asked himself? Someone else from John's crew would have switched tanks and driven it home. Sure, it would have left one of the tanks a man short, but tanks operated with only five men or less every day.

Everyone would have been better off, thought Troy, if he had just said no.

But then, how was he supposed to know that a tank that had just rolled out the motor pool only hours before was going to give up the ghost right as the German's showed up?

And what, Troy finally asked himself, if he had never insisted that Moffitt play cards with John and the guys? Moffitt would have never have drawn that hand . . .

"Enough!" Troy told himself. He started when he realized that he had actually spoken the word, and very loudly to boot.

"Sarge?" Hitch asked, looking concerned. "You all right?"

Troy took his hands away from where they had been pressing into his temples. "Yeah, it's nothing, Hitch. Just thinking, that's all."

Hitch gave him a look. "Maybe you should stop that."

Hitch was right. Troy sighed and got to his feet. If he kept thinking, he was going to drive himself crazy. He needed something to stop all of the "what if's" and "what could have been's" from going 'round and 'round in his head like a carousel.

"Anyone else need a drink?" Troy asked, looking from Tully to Hitch. "I'm buying."

* * *

The guard at the perimeter barely even acknowledged them as they went through the gates.

Almost as an afterthought he yelled, "Curfew is at 0100," after them.

Troy nodded and waved without even bothering to turn around. He could only hope that two hours was enough time to get himself drunk enough to succeed in shutting his brain off for the night.

They went to the bar where they had played cards with John and his men. Troy wondered if it really had only been two weeks since that had happened. Felt like a lifetime, he thought, as he threw back his first whiskey.

Troy caught the bartender's attention and made a circular motion with his hand. "Keep 'em coming," he instructed the man. To his satisfaction, the barkeep did just that. Tully and Hitch didn't seem to be complaining about the steady flow of liquor. They weren't saying much of anything.

That was just fine with Troy. He didn't feel like talking. Or listening. Or thinking. He didn't feel like doing much of anything but drinking. Though he, Hitch, and Tully knew more than a few people in the bar that evening, either everyone had heard about Moffitt or they had just instinctively realized that the three members of the Rat Patrol needed to be alone with each other.

It was, thought Troy as he continued to silently put them away, exactly what he had needed.

Troy squinted at his watch. He couldn't quite make out the position of the hands. Instead, he tried to determine the passage of time by counting the pile of empty glasses that they had amassed. Troy finally concluded that they'd been in the bar for quite a while.

"Hey, Sarge," Hitch managed with barely a slur.

"Yeah, Hitch?" Troy tried to focus on the boy's eyes, but could only get as close as the bridge of Hitch's glasses.

Hitch raised the arm that wasn't supporting his head. It was coincidentally the one on which he wore his watch. "I think that we should probably go if we want to get back in camp by 0100."

Troy looked again at the stack of glasses in front of him and decided that he should take Hitch's word for it. He signaled to the barkeep for their bill.

As he settled up, he felt someone at his elbow. Troy looked up and saw that it was John. As near as Troy could tell, John looked as drunk as Troy felt.

"Hey, Chief," Troy said. "We're just on our way out."

John put a hand on the bar to steady himself. "Yep. Us too. Figured we'd walk out before they had to carry us out."

Troy nodded and looked behind them. Several of John's men were standing behind them exhibiting various degrees of intoxication. "Seems like we all had the same idea about how to spend the evening."

"What else was there to do?"

Troy put a hand on John's arm, as much as to convey a silent agreement with his statement as for stability as he slid off the bar stool. "We'll walk back with you," Troy told him.

"Sounds good." John looked at his assembled crew. "Let's move out, boys."

Troy, Hitch, Tully, John and the others went out into the cool night. The made it ten yards before one of John's boys had to stop and throw up.

"Tully, I'm real sorry to hear about Moffitt," Lewis said as they waited.

Tully nodded. "Thanks."

"Though," continued Lewis, "I'm real sorry about our guys too."

"Me too," Tully said.

"And it's really Moffitt's fault, isn't it? About what happened to them?"

Tully's head snapped sharply in Lewis's direction. "What did you say?"

"Well, he was bad luck. After he drew the Dead Man's Hand, you know. Nothing good was going to come of it. Just a shame that when the bad luck came, it didn't just come for him. He got five other guys killed too. Good guys."

"Moffitt didn't kill anyone. He was trying to help them," Tully said. "And besides, we don't know that they're dead."

"I don't see how they couldn't be." Lewis looked thoughtful. "I guess you're just lucky that you got rid of him before something bad happened to you, Tully."

"Stop it, Lewis," Tully said quietly.

Troy registered that the conversation was likely going in a dangerous direction. He moved closer to where Tully and Lewis were standing. He caught John's eye. Drunk as he was, John got the hint and moved closer as well.

"Yep," continued Lewis, "It was just a matter of time before Moffitt got himself killed. And everyone else around him. Man like that ain't no good to no one."

Troy blamed the alcohol for the fact that he wasn't able to stop Tully before he had punched Lewis in the mouth. As for why he didn't move faster to pull Tully off the guy, Troy blamed the fact that he didn't exactly disagree with Tully that the guy needed his ass beaten.

Tully had gotten more than a few good punches in before Troy decided to get Tully to his feet and off of Lewis.

Tully was breathing hard. He turned his glassy eyes to Troy. "Moffitt ain't dead, Sarge, is he?"

"I don't know. But we'll find him, one way or another," Troy told the boy.

"Promise?"

Troy knew that he had no right to promise any such thing. Despite that, he nodded his head.

John had picked Lewis up off the ground. He inspected the damage to Lewis' face. "You'd better keep your mouth shut, son, unless you want to do some more bleeding. I may hit you myself next time if you keeping talking that ignorant nonsense."

"Yes, Chief." Lewis looked at Tully with an expression akin to that of a dog who had been kicked by its trusted master. "Why'd you do that, Tully? We're blood, ain't we?"

Tully spat on the ground and then looked Lewis in the eye. "We may be blood, but Moffitt is family."

* * *

The next morning, Troy felt like he had accomplished one mission at least. His head was pounding so hard that he couldn't think about anything but how much it hurt.

Despite that, it didn't stop Troy from being showered, shaved, dressed and standing in front of Boggs' desk not more than fifteen minutes after he had been summoned.

Boggs looked at Troy with an appraising eye. "You must have had quite the night, Sergeant."

Troy shrugged and looked down at his boots. "Not much different than any other night, I guess."

"I dearly hope that's not true. But at any rate, by my latest orders Operation Sandstorm will begin its first phase in three days."

Troy would believe that when he saw it, but he nodded anyway. "We'll be ready, Major. Anything until then?"

"Well, that depends, Troy. Do your men look as bad as you do?" Boggs looked down almost quickly enough to hide his smile.

"I haven't seen them yet today, but I'm sure that they don't." Troy sighed. "They're younger, sir. They recover faster."

"Isn't that the truth, Troy?" Boggs pushed himself back from the desk. "I want you and your team to go out to where Twofish's boys got intercepted by the Germans. We need to patrol the area. And I want you and your men to do it." Boggs looked at Troy. "Think you're up to it, Sergeant?"

"I am. We are." Troy forgot his pounding head. It was clearly their opportunity to go and find Moffitt, even if that wasn't what Boggs was calling it.

"If that tank is still in anyway serviceable, I want it brought back, too. Take Twofish with you. He'll be able to determine if it's salvageable."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"No, not at the moment. Leave as soon as you're able. Dismissed."

Troy saluted and moved to leave.

"Well, there is one thing, Troy."

Troy turned around. "Yes, Major?"

"After two wars, I feel that I'm qualified to give advice and that I've earned the right to dispense it."

Troy nodded and waited.

Boggs' face softened. "Be careful about trying to drown your sorrows, Sam. Sooner or later, they always learn how to swim."

* * *

Troy found John. He was in roughly the same shape that Troy had been in earlier.

However, when Troy shared their orders with him, John had brightened immediately. After getting some food into their still queasy stomachs, they met Hitch and Tully at the motor pool and moved out.

The drive was an easy one, and up until the last bit, they were travelling behind Allied lines. It didn't take them long to arrive at the site of the prior day's skirmish.

The tank was still there, exactly where it had been intercepted by the Germans. Troy sent Hitch and Tully to keep a lookout while he and John surveyed the tank and the surrounding area.

Of course, there were no immediate signs of Moffitt and the rest of the tank's crew. Troy wasn't surprised about that. Nor had the desert winds managed to preserve any foot prints or other evidence that could have possibly told them what had happened after John had lost eyes on the situation.

Troy hoped that John would be able to tell something from the inside of the tank. He smoked while he waited for John to reappear.

Finally, John's head and then the rest of his body emerged from the tank's hatch. Troy gave him a hand down.

"Well?" Troy asked.

"Well, we're not going to be taking that back with us. It's done. Toasted. Literally." John showed Troy his soot covered hands before he dusted them down on his trousers. "Fire on the inside. Not unusual, these tanks catch fire it you hit them just right. Hell, not even just right." Disgusted, John shook his head. "Now you know why they call them Ronsons."

Troy quoted the famous advertising campaign. "Lights the first time, every time?"

"That's it. Sad but true."

It wasn't the first time that Troy thanked God that he hadn't ended up in the armored division when he had enlisted. "See anything on the inside that might give us a clue about what happened to our guys?"

"Well," said John, looking over at the dead tank, "They're no bodies in there. So, I'm going to guess that no one burned to death in the tank. The Germans normally don't go to the trouble of removing the corpses when the tanks have been on fire. Not that I blame them."

Troy accepted that the only way he could, as a positive. "Anything else?"

"Not really. The tank took some pretty good hits. There was shrapnel damage inside. Once again, no bodies or blood. Also a good sign because if the tank was on fire, you wouldn't waste your time dragging out a guy that you knew was already dead."

"Okay," said Troy with a nod, "I guess I'll take it."

"That's good, because I don't have anything else to give, Sam." John lit a cigarette of his own. "Well, since there's nothing that I can do for the tank, I guess we're done here earlier than we thought."

"Yeah, we should probably get a move on." Troy looked up to where Hitch and Tully were keeping watch. He gave them the signal to come down and join them.

"Back to base?" John asked.

"Yeah, but not right away. I thought that we might do some sightseeing first."

* * *

"Here Sarge." Hitch offered the binoculars to Troy. "Take a look at this."

Troy took them and took a closer look at the Wehrmacht installation that they had found. "They're keeping POWs here," said Troy as he continued to watch the activity going on below them.

"That's sure what it looks like to me," Hitch agreed.

"Think that's where they've taken our boys, Sam?" John asked.

"If I was a betting man, I would say yes. At least it's a good place to start looking." He handed the binoculars back to Hitch.

"So what now?" John asked. "I assume that we're going to break them out?"

"In due time," Troy answered. "We need to get a better idea of how the place runs before we try though. We've got a few days before the war gets going again according to Boggs. That should give us plenty of time."

"Uh, Sarge?" Hitch offered his binoculars to Troy again. "You might want to take a look at this."

"What now?" Troy took the binoculars. After a moment he lowered them. He looked at Hitch and then Tully. "That can't be."

"I think that it is," said Hitch. "What do you think, Tully?"

Tully nodded without hesitation. "Yep."

John looked from Hitch to Troy, puzzled. "What is it?"

"Not what, who." Troy rolled onto his back and sighed. "Apparently our favorite German Captain has found a new home."


	6. A Confirmed Kill

Out of all of the things that Dietrich had thought that he might find himself doing during the war, running a Wehrmacht prisoner of war camp certainly had not been one of them.

When he had first received the order, Dietrich had assumed that he was finally being punished for all of the times that Troy and the Rat Patrol had bested him. After all, at some point, his superiors had been bound to lose any and all faith in him. He was actually surprised that it had taken as long as it had.

Dietrich had been reassured by his command that the position was merely temporary until a suitable replacement had been found for the prior Kommandant. Apparently, as he was told, the vacancy had been rather sudden since the former Hauptmann in charge had been found guilty of aiding and abetting the prisoners in escape, among other things, for the right price. And in accordance with what currently passed for military justice in the desert, the man had been abruptly shot for treason.

As much as he found the posting, even if only temporary, distasteful Dietrich had packed a bag and left Bader in charge of their unit.

God help them, Dietrich had thought, as his camp had disappeared in the dust of his Kubelwagon.

The only comfort that Dietrich could find in Bader's temporary command was that the war seemed to be at a momentarily lull. However, it was a small comfort only. In Dietrich's experience, such calm only signaled a coming storm. He hoped for the unit's sake that Bader was up to it if something nasty broke before he was able to reassume command.

Life as the kommandant of a Wehrmacht prisoner of war camp was decidedly much less stressful than being the commander of a Panzer group, Dietrich had quickly decided. However, the increase in the paperwork meant that the tedium had more than replaced the stress of his regular post.

A week and a half had almost passed before they received any new prisoners. It was not surprising, thought Dietrich. When the war was slow, it made sense that the prisoner of war business would be as well.

The details of their capture and the initial interrogations had arrived with the prisoners. Dietrich had reviewed them with interest. All of the men were from the crew of an American tank that had been destroyed by a Wehrmacht unit. He had to blink when he saw Bader's name signed to the report. It was a very good report. And on all accounts, while the majority of the American tanks had escaped, there had been few German losses as a result of the skirmish.

Dietrich suddenly and surprisingly felt like a proud parent. Perhaps, he thought, Bader might do well with some time alone to spread his wings and hone his skills. When he returned, Dietrich resolved to trust Bader with more responsibility.

He began reading the report again, continuing from the point where the details of the men captured were reported. Dietrich frowned when he turned the next page. There was at least one page, if not more, missing. Dietrich sighed with unsurprised disappointment. Though, he supposed that it was hardly Bader's fault.

A knock came at the Kommandant's office door. Dietrich marked his place in the report and placed it aside. "Yes?"

Dietrich's adjutant opened the door just wide enough to get his head through. "Herr Hauptmann, the new prisoners have nearly finished the intake process."

"Very good, Leutnant Wagner," said Dietrich. "I appreciate the update."

"Yes, Herr Hauptmann." The Leutnant started to pull his head from the door.

"One moment, Wagner," Dietrich said before the young man disappeared. "Did Leutnant Bader accompany the prisoners to the camp?"

"No, he did not, Herr Hauptmann."

It took Dietrich a moment to register that he actually felt disappointment at the news. It took him another moment to ask himself exactly why he should feel that way. No reasonable answer presented itself and Dietrich merely shook his head.

"Who did accompany them?" Dietrich asked. "And could you ask him where the rest of this report is?"

"Kriminalkomissar Freitag brought the men to the camp, sir." Wagner looked visibly upset by the presence of the Gestapo in their midst. "And I will ask him about the report. I delivered it to you as it was given to me."

"I am sure that you did." Dietrich found what Wagner had told him about the Gestapo, at least odd, if nothing else. "The Gestapo brought the prisoners here? These are enlisted men, correct?" He glanced at Bader's report again, wondering what exactly could have been in the missing pages that would have inspired the interest of the Gestapo. "How many?"

"Yes, sir, they are enlisted men. Two corporals and two privates, with the US armored division."

"One moment." Something else occurred to Dietrich. "Did you say Freitag?"

"Yes, Herr Hauptmann."

"Not Wilhelm Freitag?" Dietrich asked, almost to himself.

Wagner smiled faintly. "I am not exactly on a first name basis with the Kriminalkomissar, sir."

"Of course not," said Dietrich. No one wanted to be on a first name basis with the Gestapo, did they? "Where is the Kriminalkomissar?"

"With the prisoners, I am sure, Herr Hauptmann. Would you like me to escort you to them?"

"That will not be necessary." Dietrich waved the offer away. "I have been here more than a week, Wagner. I do know my way around by now."

Wagner ducked his head. "Yes, sir, of course you do. Anything else?"

"No, thank you. That is all."

Dietrich got up and retrieved his cover before exiting his office. Not that Freitag was a particularly uncommon German name, but still. How very interesting it would be if the man was his childhood friend Wilhelm. Though, Dietrich considered as he walked over to the block building where the prisoners were being processed, it would be highly unlikely that the Wilhelm he knew would be a member of the Gestapo.

Wilhelm Freitag was an orphan, the ward of the Dietrich family's elderly neighbor. Dietrich had met Wilhelm in the village not long after the boy's arrival. Only Dietrich's intervention had saved him from being brutalized by several larger boys. The encounter had cost Dietrich a bloody nose. But from that day on, he had gained a loyal friend.

Of course, as close as they had been as boys, they had naturally parted ways as young adults. Dietrich had taken his appointment at the Academy. Wilhelm had gone on to study medicine at the University of Vienna. They had not seen each other much since, only during holidays, and then after the war had begun, not at all. There had never been any indication that Wilhelm had joined the Gestapo. And in all reality, considering the timid skinny bookworm that Wilhelm had been, Dietrich found it completely unlikely that he had joined Hitler's brutal secret police force.

The intake building was cool and dim, the lack of windows keeping both the light and the desert heat at bay. Dietrich entered and went to where he knew the new prisoners would be.

There were only one man in the room with whom Dietrich was not familiar, save for the men who were obviously the prisoners. Quietly, Dietrich cleared his throat.

As he had hoped, the man had turned around.

At the sight of Dietrich, a genuine smile lit Wilhelm's features. "Hans!" he exclaimed as he moved quickly towards Dietrich.

"Wilhelm! It is wonderful to see you! And here, of all places." Dietrich shook Wilhelm's hand and then put an arm around his shoulders. "You are looking exceedingly well, I must say."

"Thank you, Hans. You look like you have been in the desert too long," Wilhelm said with a sly grin.

Dietrich laughed at the good natured jab. "That is probably true. I cannot believe that it is you! When I heard the surname, I had to come see for myself. You joined the Gestapo?" Dietrich did not bother to hide his surprise.

Wilhelm nodded. "When I was finished with University, I wanted to help with the War effort. My eyes were too poor for the Luftwaffe and of course, the Wehrmacht didn't want me as an officer, not even as a doctor, as I was not able to satisfy the physical the requirements."

Dietrich took in the strapping fellow before him. "I am sure that you would have no such problems now."

"No, not now. But then, you know, I looked the same when I finished school as I did the last time that you saw me. Like a beanpole." Wilhelm sighed. "My guardian had a connection with the Gestapo and inquired if I might be of service. My typing is very good and my bloodline is pure."

Dietrich nodded, trying not to show how ridiculous he found that the main qualifiers to become one of for Hitler's "elite" was how many words that one could type in a sitting and that by the grace of chance, one possessed Aryan blood.

"So, I joined the Gestapo. And now, here I am. In Afrika."

"And what is your primary focus?"

Wilhelm shrugged. "Nothing far from normal. Investigation and interrogation."

"I see. Surely there is no one in this camp that would merit the Gestapo's attention?" If there was, Dietrich certainly had not been informed.

"Oh, no. However, I have a prisoner who has been deemed more than worthy."

Dietrich glanced over to the enlisted me who were being handed their Red Cross kits.

Wilhelm caught his eye. "Not one of them. They are nothing more than your typical American enlisted men with the typical knowledge that one would suspect that they would possess."

"Who then? Where is this 'worthy' prisoner?"

"Being held at one of our offices nearby. I was hoping, however, that I might have our men bring him here?"

While Dietrich hardly had a wide breadth of experience as a POW camp Kommandant, the request seemed odd to him. "Why here?"

"Well, Leutnant Bader shared that you were temporarily posted here." Wilhelm gave Dietrich a disarming smile. "I was glad to have the opportunity to see you."

Dietrich smiled back, but his natural suspicion was beginning to trump any sentimentally that he felt. "I see. And that is the only reason?"

"Well, no. The man needs some medical attention and I need a quiet environment in which to perform the interrogation. Have you seen a Gestapo office before, Hans? They are hardly quiet."

Dietrich frowned at the memories of what he had seen the Gestapo do to their prisoners. With all of the screaming that attention from the Gestapo would elicit, he would agree that their offices were anything but quiet. "This is a Wehrmacht prisoner of war camp, Wilhelm. I cannot allow you to break the rules of the Geneva Convention here."

Apparently understanding exactly what Dietrich was not saying, Wilhelm laughed. "Hans! How long have you known me? Do you think me some sick bastard who gets his jollies from hanging men from meat hooks or gouging them with hot pokers?"

"Of course not," murmured Dietrich. "But as you guessed, I have been to more than one Gestapo outpost here, and in Europe before that. I do know what goes on there."

"Precisely! Which is why I wanted to be here. My methods of interrogation are thorough and they produce results. However, sometimes they are not as quick, or brutal, as my fellow officers would like. Of course, it is completely up to you, Hans. If you say no, then I will not trouble you for your hospitality."

"I would be happy to help the Gestapo and even happier to help an old friend." It was very nearly a lie, but in the end, Dietrich felt that it would hardly be prudent to make a statement otherwise when the Gestapo was involved.

"Glad to hear it. Thank you so much. I will have the man delivered right away. You have a private room in your infirmary?"

Dietrich nodded. "Of course."

"We will put him there. Oh, and I will need two guards, at least, outside of the building at all times."

"Certainly. I will make the arrangements immediately. Luckily, the men in the camp seem to be relatively healthy. I am sure that Doktor Hoffman will be glad for something to do besides read old medical journals. What kind of injuries does the man have?"

"Oh, he was burned. Nothing life threatening, but his injuries do need care." Wilhelm pulled something out of his pocket. "Here. I nearly forgot. Bader wanted me to give something to you."

Dietrich took the objects from Wilhelm. He recognized them immediately as the identity discs of an English soldier. When he turned them over and read them, his mouth dropped open.

It couldn't be, Dietrich thought.

"Wilhelm, did Bader say to tell me anything about the man to which these belong?"

Wilhelm nodded. "He was very proud of himself and wanted you to be proud of him as well."

"And the man is . . . ?"

"Dead, I'm afraid. Apparently, he was a comrade of the men that are being processed into your camp today."

Suddenly, Dietrich's mouth had gone dry. Speechless, he looked over to where the new prisoners were being led away. None of them looked familiar.

"Hans?" Wilhelm asked, concerned. "Is there something wrong? Leutnant Bader really did think that you would be very pleased."

Wordlessly, Dietrich nodded. "Of course I am pleased," he finally managed.

After all, Dietrich asked himself, how could he not be pleased?

In the short week that Bader had been in command of Dietrich's unit, Bader had managed to achieve something that Dietrich never could.

Bader had a confirmed kill of a member of the Rat Patrol.


	7. Hard Proof

"The man has pretended to be dead before, you know." Dietrich neglected to mention that on at least one such occasion, Moffitt had resurrected himself as Herr Hauptmann Hans Dietrich of the Wehrmacht. "You have seen the body with your own eyes?"

"Oh, yes. Actually, I had it brought it here, along with my prisoner." Wilhelm said as he poured himself a glass of cognac from Dietrich's predecessor's surprisingly well stocked sideboard.

"What? You had his body brought here?" Dietrich nearly choked on his cigarette at the morbid thought that Moffitt's body was somewhere in his camp. "Why?"

"Bader made quite the impression upon me. He warned me that the man's commander would stop at nothing to find one of his men. Unless, of course, he was convinced that the man was dead. I think that Bader feared that you might be in danger of constant attack and harassment unless you could prove the man was indeed dead."

Dietrich nodded slowly, remembering the first advice that he had given young Bader when he had taken his post. That advice had been about the dangers of holding only part of the Rat Patrol prisoner. If Bader had learned one thing from him, Dietrich was glad that it had been that.

However . . .

Dietrich cleared his throat. "Are you saying that Bader suggested for you to bring the body here?"

"Yes. I thought that it sounded like a good idea, so I followed his advice."

"I see." However, that did nothing to address the fact that Moffitt was dead and that now, Dietrich ultimately had possession of his body. "What am I supposed to do with the corpse?"

"Well, I believe that it was Bader's reasoning that you might need it to provide sufficient proof to the man's commander, Sergeant Troy, that Sergeant Moffitt is dead." Wilhelm took a seat in the chair across from Dietrich's desk. "Does that sound likely?"

"I suppose. Yes, it does," agreed Dietrich. "Troy is stubborn. It is very likely that he would never believe that one of his men was dead without seeing the hard proof with his own two eyes."

"We definitely have hard proof."

Dietrich contemplated what he had been told. The men that had been with Moffitt had been captured not far from the area of his camp. If past experience was a predictor of future events, Troy would turn the general vicinity upside down until he found Moffitt, alive or dead.

For once, Dietrich found that he could not argue Bader's logic. It was truly a world gone mad, he thought.

Downing his drink, Dietrich rose from his chair. "Now that we are talking of it, I too, would like to see the body."

* * *

Dietrich had wished that he had not gulped his drink just a few short minutes before. The liquid threatened to rise in his throat and gag him at the sight with which he was presented.

"My God in heaven," he whispered. Dietrich barely resisted the Catholic urge to cross himself. Taking a deep breath, he looked to Wilhelm. "What happened to him?"

"From what I was told, he was killed saving his fellow crewmates from a burning tank. And then, he found himself trapped after he had rescued all but one. Pretty extraordinary fellow, I would think. Shame that such noble actions were the end of him." Wilhelm looked down at contorted mess that had become Moffitt's face. "You know," Wilhelm said, thoughtfully, "if you did not know it was the man, you would not even recognize him, would you?"

"He is barely recognizable as a human being in the state that he is in." Dietrich backed out of the truck and joined Wilhelm in the open air. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in his nostrils.

"I am sure that his team will recognize his general height and build, the shreds of the uniform. Just as you just did. Nothing much else to go on, though. The toll of the war is truly shocking. I do not know how you deal with seeing things like that every day, Hans. Does one ever get used to it?"

"Wilhelm, I can tell you truthfully that no one ever gets used to it. I am no exception." It was not the first time that Dietrich had seen the effects of fire ravaging a man's body. Of all the ways he had seen men die, it was truly in his opinion, the cruelest. It was also the one that evoked the harshest reaction from him. "I have seen enough. Thank you for humoring me," Dietrich said.

"Certainly. I am sorry that it had to be so gruesome."

Dietrich was also sorry that he had to see the end state in which Moffitt had found himself. Though, like Troy, he probably would not have believed it unless he had seen it. "Would you care to go back to my office?" he asked Wilhelm, more than conscious that a newcomer to the desert should limit his time in the intense daytime heat.

"Actually, not to be rude Hans, but I would like to go the infirmary to check on my prisoner. I left him with your Doktor and another of our men." Wilhelm looked up at the ever present, ever burning sun. "And then, I think that I would like to retire for a while before I begin the interrogation."

"Of course," said Dietrich. "I will walk you there."

When they reached the infirmary, Dietrich turned to his friend. "Would it be possible for me to meet your prisoner? After all, he is effectively my prisoner as well."

"I would rather that you not, at least not right now. And the man is a prisoner of the Gestapo, not the Wehrmacht."

Wilhelm's tone was mild, but Dietrich found the words shockingly sharp. Deciding that he was letting his dislike of the Gestapo in general unreasonably overshadow his friendship with Wilhelm, Dietrich finally nodded. "Of course, as you wish. I will leave you to it."

"Thank you, Hans. I appreciate your understanding."

Dietrich still was not certain that he did understand. Certainly, he told himself, he was being absurd. "Wilhelm, will you do me the honor of joining me for dinner? The food that I receive as camp Kommandant is marginally better than what we feed the prisoners."

"I can't tell if you're joking or not, Hans." Wilhelm cocked an amused eyebrow at Dietrich. "However, I would be happy to accept your invitation. It will give us a chance to catch up, yes? And a man has to eat, doesn't he?"

Dietrich nodded in agreement. Though, in reality, after seeing Moffitt's corpse Dietrich wondered when his appetite might return.

He was almost certain that it would not be by dinner time.

* * *

While Dietrich had still not actually seen Wilhelm's prisoner, he had heard the chatter amongst the guards.

And any information or related speculation that Dietrich might have missed, Wagner was happy to supply. Dietrich was quickly learning that the mundane life of the prisoner of war camp was supplemented by a hotbed of gossip. Which he was beginning to suspect was strongly encouraged by his second.

"The man's face was bandaged, as were his hands," Wagner relayed. "He was walking under his own power, though."

"So I have heard," said Dietrich, leaning forward. "What else?"

Wagner leaned in closer towards Dietrich. "Franke, the head guard, heard him speak. Said that he was very polite. Though, I doubt if Franke understood half of what he said. The English that the prisoners have taught him is hardly the best."

Dietrich raised his eyebrows. He could only imagine what kind of English one picked up in a prisoner of war camp. He was sure that Franke had received quite the education.

"Have you heard anything about who he is?" Dietrich asked casually. He was, in fact, very interested in that information. And certainly, it seemed the hardest to come by. Dietrich had asked Wilhelm that same question, and more than once, and still his friend had continued to be very vague about what role the prisoner had been playing in the war.

"No, I have not. There is speculation of course." Wagner did not bother to hide that he found the speculation exciting.

"Of course there is speculation. And what is it?"

"That the prisoner is an Allied general," Wagner nearly whispered.

Dietrich almost laughed at that. "Well, I suppose he could be. But you do know, do you not Wagner, generals on either side of the war are very hard to come by?"

Wagner shrugged. "It is as good of a story as any. But I will let you know if I hear anything else."

"Thank you, that would be much appreciated." Dietrich looked at the clock. "Oh, Kriminalkomissar Freitag will be joining me for dinner tonight. Would you tell the kitchen?"

"Of course, Herr Hauptmann." Wagner made a slight face. "Though it is the day before our scheduled supply delivery. I doubt that the menu tonight will be worthy of your guest."

"As there is a war on, I am sure that the Kriminalkomissar will understand." As bad as it could possibly be, Dietrich suspected that even at its worst the food at the camp was still better than what he and his men had gotten in the field.

"I will see what I can do," promised Wagner. "Is there anything else, sir?"

"No, thank you. If you wish, you may retire for the day after you arrange dinner, Leutnant."

"I will take you up on that. But if you need anything, you know where to find me, Herr Hauptman."

Wagner left Dietrich's office and closed the door behind him.

Alone, Dietrich looked out his window and across the recreation yard. He couldn't help but to entertain his own speculation about who Wilhelm's prisoner might be. It was highly doubtful that the man was a general, but certainly, it was entirely possible that he was an officer. Potentially, Dietrich realized, Wilhelm's mission could be related to the sudden calm that had descended up on the desert.

At any rate, the man warranted both the Gestapo's attention and Dietrich's hospitality. Dietrich supposed that he would find out more in due time. Either Wilhelm would tell him, or, he would simply have to enlist his own methods.

His mind turned to the death of Sergeant Moffitt. Not that Dietrich would admit it to anyone, after all he could barely admit it to himself, but he was saddened by the man's death. As much trouble as Troy's pet English rat had caused Dietrich, he had always held a certain amount of respect for Moffitt. He had been intelligent, clever, and fiercely loyal to Troy and the others.

And most importantly, Dietrich had always considered Moffitt to be an honorable man. Even if it was honor after Moffitt's own fashion, bred of both the savage desert and polite English tradition, much like Moffitt himself.

In Dietrich's experience, Moffitt had never been one to let the niceties of socially accepted behavior get in the way of him getting his job done. Nor, apparently, in the end had Moffitt let any sense of self-preservation let him get in the way of attempting to sacrifice his life for others. And if Dietrich had to wager, he would doubt if Moffitt was more than acquaintances with the men whose lives that he had saved at the cost of his own.

There would be nothing surprising about that at all, particularly as Dietrich vividly remembered Moffitt running himself to exhaustion to care for Bader and him when they had been so very close to dying.

Dietrich looked at the identification disks that Wilhelm had given him and then closed his hand around them.

Dietrich's thoughts settled on Troy.

Dietrich wondered if Troy knew that Moffitt was dead. Surely, his death would be reported, as would the death of the man that Moffitt had not saved, and as would the news that the others were interred as prisoners of war. Dietrich sighed. If Troy did know, then he would be burdened with telling the others about their fallen comrade. The more that he thought about the situation, the more unbelievably sympathetic Dietrich felt towards Troy. After all, while writing a letter to the family of a dead soldier was difficult, Dietrich did not find it the hardest chore. To him, telling the other men with whom the deceased had laughed, cried, sweated, and bled was the hardest thing of all.

No, thought Dietrich as he bowed his head, he did not envy Troy.

* * *

Dietrich inspected the bottle of wine. He nodded his approval.

As the man applied the cork screw to the bottle, Dietrich wondered how exactly the former Kommandant had come by such an excellent vintage. He supposed that it was likely an ill gotten gain received by his predecessor in return for his reported lack of scruples. Ah well, thought Dietrich as he sampled the wine, at least he couldn't fault the man's taste. He nodded for the server to pour a glass for Wilhelm.

"So far, being a prisoner of war camp Kommandant does not look like a bad way to spend the war, Hans." Wilhelm took a drink of his wine and looked pleasantly surprised. "Not bad at all."

"This is a temporary post," Dietrich felt the need to say. "I am trying to not get too comfortable here."

"Of course. Bader told me that you were placed here due to an immediate and unavoidable need," Wilhelm said. "Do not worry, though. All hell is going to break loose any day now and you will be needed back on the battlefield soon enough."

Interest piqued, Dietrich leaned forward. "What do you know that I do not, Wilhelm?"

"Not much yet, but I am certainly hoping that my prisoner is going to share many of the details." The food arrived and Wilhelm studied his plate. "I know now that you were joking earlier. This does not look too bad to me."

Dietrich thought that the meal, which consisted of grilled sausages, the ever present potato, and boiled seasoned cabbage, was better than most would hope to eat on most days. "Certainly, it is not the most exciting fare, but I assure you it is still perfectly edible."

Wilhelm took a drink of wine and then smiled. "It actually reminds me of what they used to feed us at school. Does it not you?"

Dietrich smiled. "It does indeed."

"What a different world it was then!" Wilhelm placed his napkin in his lap.

"Yes, it was." What Dietrich's world had been was such a sharp contrast to what it had become that any memories of the past hardly seemed real.

They were silent as they began their meal.

It was Dietrich who spoke first. "Who is your prisoner, Wilhelm?"

"A very important member of the Allied forces." Wilhelm did not look up from his plate.

"I have heard that he is a general." Dietrich gave a small smile to communicate to Wilhelm exactly how ludicrous he had found that idea.

"Nothing gets by you here, does it, Hans?" Wilhelm grinned and then shook his head. "Not hardly, but important none the less."

Dietrich sighed. "There is not much excitement here, I am afraid. Anything out of the ordinary becomes an immediate topic of conversation. And speculation."

"That also reminds me of our school." Wilhelm laughed.

"And you think that the Allies are up to something?"

"Are they not always?" Wilhelm speared his last piece of sausage and ate it.

"There is a war on, even if it has been quiet of late."

"Exactly. They have been converging troops and gather supplies. We have gained information that they are planning a rather large offensive against the Wehrmacht."

As he had expected, Dietrich thought, they truly were experiencing the quiet before an oncoming storm. "And you think that this man knows something of it?"

"Oh yes, of that I am sure. And I am also sure that he will tell me all about it." Wilhelm surveyed his plate. "This was actually very good. My compliments to the chef, Hans."

There was still quite a bit of cabbage left on the plate. Dietrich found it odd, not to mention wasteful, when he thought of his own men back in the desert nearly starving some days. "May I get you something else?" Dietrich looked to the server who immediately approached the table.

"Oh? The cabbage? Well, I was advised by our medical personal not to eat it. It seems that it was aggravating my condition."

"Condition?" Dietrich asked, both curious and surprised. "Not serious, I hope?"

"You remember how scrawny I was? Apparently, it had something to do with one of my glands. The thyroid of all things. When I joined the Gestapo, I had a full physical from German's best physicians." Wilhelm idly moved the uneaten cabbage around his plate. "They discovered what the problem was and corrected it. Cabbage apparently makes it worse."

Dietrich couldn't help but to smile. "What an unfortunate ailment for a German."

Wilhelm chuckled. "I know. Is it not? If only I had found it out sooner. You would not have had to fight for me quite so often when we were boys, eh, Hans?"

"It was no problem. We were friends." Dietrich thought about all of the scuffles that he had had as a boy. Quite a few indeed had been because he had been protecting Wilhelm. It seemed to Dietrich that he had always enjoyed fighting for the underdog.

"Tell me more about the suspected offensive that the Allies are waging," Dietrich asked, motioning for their plates to be cleared. He watched as the offending cabbage was taken away.

"I think that they believe that it will be the end of the desert war," said Wilhelm. "Honestly, I am not so sure that we do not believe the same. If the Allies were to be successful, that is. We are interrogating anyone captured who we believe may have knowledge. Quite a few of us from the Gestapo have been dispatched from Berlin to here."

"Have you found out anything of interest?"

"A few weeks ago we managed to capture a colonel from the US Army. He gave us much information. Before the Allies rescued him."

"Surely," said Dietrich, "if they rescued their colonel, and if he told them what he shared with you, then they have changed their plans."

"I agree. As such, this man and the current information that he has could be the key. We have been trying to locate him for weeks. And finally, as luck would have it, we found him yesterday."

Dietrich leaned forward, interested. "And what makes this man so special?"

"He is one of those who are at the heart of the thing. The colonel told us that much. While the game may have changed since we have spoken with him, I truly doubt that the names of the players have."

Dietrich agreed that much would likely be true. "Who is he?"

Wilhelm poured himself another glass of wine and sat back in his chair. "For the moment, I am not at liberty to disclose his identity. Orders from my superiors. I hope that you understand, Hans?"

"Of course. Orders are orders." Dietrich murmured. If anyone could understand that, it was him. Even if they were the orders of the Gestapo, he supposed. "You are planning on interrogating him? Is he well enough for that?"

"What? Well enough?" Wilhelm looked momentarily confused. "Oh, the bandages. You do have eyes here, don't you? As I told you before, his injuries are not that serious. He has received and will continue to receive the treatment that he needs to heal. I had your Doktor Hauffman confirm that."

Dessert arrived and Dietrich waited until they were served. "Please leave us for the rest of the evening," he told the server.

"Yes, Mein Herr." The man left and closed the door behind him.

Dietrich offered a cigarette to Wilhelm. Dietrich had never known him to smoke, but really, so much about his friend had changed.

"You know how the Fuhrer feels about smoking, Hans," Wilhelm admonished. "And as a doctor myself, I will tell you that it is for good reason."

Dietrich lit his cigarette, in spite of what both Wilhelm and Hitler thought. "You said that your methods of interrogation are different than the Gestapo's traditional methods, Wilhelm?"

"Traditional methods? Is that a polite way of saying torture?" Wilhelm looked genuinely offended. "How many times must I tell you? My methods are not torture." Wilhelm got up from his chair and went to the window. "I am not some brutal monster, Hans. How could you think that?"

"My apologies. Nothing directed to you, Wilhelm. But as we discussed earlier, I do know a thing or two about how the Gestapo operates."

"Well, I suppose that there is a time and a place for any method, depending on the situation," Wilhelm said slowly. He turned, arms folded across his chest. "But really, how effective is it to beat a man until he will tell you anything? Perhaps something that is not even true?"

"That is always the risk with interrogation, is it not?"

"I am sure that you know who said this: 'It has always been recognized that this way of interrogating men, by putting them to torture, produces nothing worthwhile. The poor wretches say anything that comes into their mind and what they think the interrogator wishes to know.'"

"Of course. Napoleon." Dietrich couldn't disagree. "So what is your method then, if not brutality?"

"Drugs."

"Drugs?" Dietrich thought of morphine or of heroin or opium or of any of the other drugs with which he was familiar. In his experience, they barely left a man coherent, much less able to give detail that would be useful enough to counteract a military offensive.

Wilhelm came back to the table to survey the strudel. "I actually worked on the creation of the drug that I am utilizing when I was at the University of Vienna. When administered, the subject becomes incapable of lying."

To Dietrich, it sounded preposterous. "So, really, you ask the question and the man just tells you the truth?"

"Yes, really. It is amazing, is it not?" Wilhelm beamed. "Oh, Hans, I am sorry that you are here and not in Germany! The power of the Reich is amazing. The scientific advancements, social sciences, welfare programs. Everyone thinks the Nazi regime so brutal, but really, it is nothing of the kind. We are looking for ways to make things better. For all."

"You are far away from Berlin, Wilhelm. You may give the rhetoric a rest."

For a moment, there was something dark that had flickered in Wilhelm's eyes. It was so brief that Dietrich barely caught it, but he was certain that whatever response that he had triggered in Wilhelm was a dangerous one.

"What do you mean? You sit out here in the desert, fighting for the Reich, and you believe it all just to be rhetoric?" Wilhelm asked.

Dietrich gave his standard answer. It was, after all, what he told himself. "I believe in fighting for Germany."

"As do we all." Wilhelm suddenly smiled, his expression once again open and kind. "It will truly be a marvelous thousand years for the world. And we must all do what we need to do to ensure that the Fuhrer's vision becomes a reality. To the Fuhrer and the Reich!" He raised his wine glass.

As much it pained him, Dietrich did the same. After all, it was not the first toast that he had drank to the Fuhrer and the madness he had created. Dietrich was certain that it would not be the last.

But as he toasted, his mind turned.

How many times had he been glad that he had been in the desert fighting in the War without Hate, just so he could avoid what was happening back in his beloved Germany. Even so, he could clearly remember all of the times that the madness had touched him, even in Afrika.

And every time, it had made him a bit less proud to be German, and each time, it had made him question more about for what he was really fighting. Any decent man would do the same.

But there before him, Kriminalkomissar Wilhelm Freitag sat, espousing the wonders of the Reich.

Through a thin veil of smoke, Dietrich regarded his childhood friend. While the physical difference between Wilhelm today and the Wilhelm of their youth was nothing short of amazing, Dietrich would have not have believed that the man would be so different than the boy.

Serious and intelligent, young Wilhelm had found joy in the simplest things in life, gentle and kind to all around him, even those that had beaten him. Secretly, Dietrich had always admired Wilhelm and his mellow approach to life. No one would have accused the young Hans of being anything close to temperate.

It was just as unlikely that anyone would draw that conclusion about the adult Hans, thought Dietrich. He had not changed since they were boys.

But Wilhelm? Dietrich now feared that Wilhelm had changed.

That once kind gentle boy was now a member of the Gestapo, and Dietrich would hazard to bet, a card carrying goose stepping Nazi. The idea sickened him, as did Hitler's ability to be able to mesmerize and brainwash an entire country.

A country which, like Wilhelm, was desperate for greatness and power after a recent past that had been anything but strong.

For the second time that day, Dietrich mourned a loss. This time not of an enemy, but instead, possibly of a friend.


	8. No News

Troy and John were watching their boys throw around a baseball.

With a few more days before the war was due to start up again, the games were back on and everyone was excited for the afternoon's match. Troy was glad to see Tully and Hitch out with the others. He was happy that they had anything to take their minds off the fact that Moffitt was still missing. Troy envied them that.

"Sergeants," said Marshall, coming to stand beside where Troy and John were sitting.

Troy and John looked at each other, obviously both trying to decide if it was worth their time to stand up to greet the Lieutenant. They both decided that it wasn't worth the trouble not to.

"Lieutenant," Troy answered. He kept his eyes on the baseball.

"Sergeant Twofish, I have some news for you." Marshall handed John a piece of paper.

John took it and Troy peered over, trying to read the small smudgy mimeographed script.

John looked up at Marshall. "Lieutenant, is this today's report from the Red Cross?" He then turned his attention back to the list, scanning down it with his finger.

"Yes, it is. Just got it in from the courier." Marshall smiled at John. "I thought that you'd like to see it."

A grin grew on John's face. He looked over at Troy. "Iggy, Thompson, Taylor, and Smith are on this list. They've been registered as prisoners of war by the Wehrmacht."

Troy nodded and smiled as well. Being a POW wasn't the best thing, but it beat the hell out of being dead. It also was good to know that the camp where the guys had landed was the one that was currently being run by Dietrich. He was at least confident that they would get a fair deal.

And that eventually, considering Dietrich's luck, they would be able to break them all out.

Troy's smile faded when he saw John frown. He watched as John turned the paper over.

"Where's the rest of the list, Lieutenant Marshall?" John asked, still frowning.

Now, it was Marshall's turn not to smile. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "That's it, Sergeant."

John looked to Troy. "Moffitt and Adams aren't on here, Sam."

Troy took the list and scanned it. Then he read it again. John was right. Troy felt any hope that he might have had fade away. "Did you get a list of the dead and the missing from yesterday, Marshall?" Troy asked, dreading the answer.

"We did. But neither Moffitt's nor Adams' name was on it, either." Marshall shook his head. "Isn't no news better than bad news?"

Troy thought about that. He wasn't sure of the answer. But he was sure about two things. First thing being that he was sure that the omission of Moffitt's and Adam's names from the list probably wasn't an error.

And the second: If there any answers to be had, Troy had a sneaking suspicion that Dietrich had them locked up somewhere in that camp of his.

* * *

"Awww, Sarge, what do you mean that you're not coming to the game this afternoon?" Hitch shook his head. "You haven't seen us play at all."

"I'm sorry, Hitch. John and I have something else to do this afternoon." Troy put his hand on Hitch's shoulder.

Troy looked over at John's guys. They were apparently having the same reaction to the news that the Chief wouldn't be there when they played either.

Kids, thought Troy, with a sigh.

"I mean, what is there even to do?" Hitch grumbled, popping a bubble. "You do like baseball, don't you, Sarge? Because if you don't, that would be un-American."

"I'm plenty American and I like baseball just fine, Hitch. Hopefully, I'll be back before the end of your game." Troy looked to Tully. "I really would like to see you and Tully play."

Tully wasn't saying much, but as usual, Troy wondered what he was thinking. And as usual, Troy found that he had no idea.

"You boys have fun," Troy said, finally. He walked towards John.

"My guys just gave me a hell of a going over for missing their game," Troy told John, shaking his head. "Do you think that we're bad parents?"

"Probably. Ask my real kids, they're likely to tell you that I'm hardly the world's best dad," John answered.

"I find that hard to believe," Troy said with a grin.

"Yeah? Before I left for the war, my fifteen year old daughter used to tell me every day that I was ruining her life." John looked fond at the memory.

"Really? My little sister used to tell me the same thing, and I'm not even her father."

John laughed. "Because you wouldn't let any guy get within two hundred yards of her?"

Troy nodded. "Yeah, pretty much. The same at your house?"

"Yep, how'd you guess?"

"Because I've seen a picture of your daughter, John." Troy gave John a good natured shove.

Laughing, they continued walking towards the motor pool.

"Sarge?" came a voice from behind them.

Troy and John both turned to look.

"Tully? Shouldn't you be getting ready for your game with the others?" Troy asked the boy.

"Don't feel much like playing." Tully looked down at his boots and then back up at Troy. "You're going out to look for Moffitt, aren't you?"

John and Troy shared a look.

Troy looked Tully in the eye. "Yep, that's right. Since Dietrich is running the POW camp where the others were taken, we think that he might know something."

"So you're going to pay him a visit, huh?" Tully looked to be considering something. "Can I come? I can help."

"No, I think that you should stay here. There's a good chance that John and I will end up locked in there along with everyone else."

"If you're expecting that, doesn't really sound like you have a good plan."

Momentarily, Troy was struck silent by Tully's assessment. Moffitt was generally the one that gave him hell when he didn't like, or didn't understand, Troy's plans. Troy wondered if Tully was picking up the mantle in Moffitt's absence. He sure as hell hoped not.

"Give me some credit Tully," Troy said finally, with a sigh. "I'm going in there for Moffitt and I'm bringing him out. My plan is going to work just fine."

"I want to go with you," Tully stated.

Troy shook his head. "No. Absolutely not."

"It's too dangerous, son," said John. "We've already lost more than a few boys. If anything happened to you . . . Well, you don't want that weighing on Sergeant Troy's conscious, too, do you?"

Tully thought about that and then looked at Troy. "No."

Troy and John started walking again.

Tully was right behind them. "Nothing's going to happen to me."

"Oh for heaven's sake," Troy muttered. He had been about to turn on his heel and order to Tully to go back to the others.

Until Tully spoke his next words.

"But if you're going into the camp, Sarge, I can be of help to you," Tully insisted. "I can speak some German, Moffitt has been teaching me. And well . . ." Tully gave John a sidelong look. "Sergeant Twofish can't come with you now, can he? Wouldn't it be safer with two of us?"

Troy stopped walking. Tully was right, two going in was always better than one. Troy had resigned himself to going it alone. There was no way that John would even remotely pass as German.

"You know, he's right, Troy," John muttered, just loudly enough for Troy to hear. "That was the one thing I didn't like about your plan, was you going in by yourself."

Putting his hand on hips, Troy looked back at Tully. "You sure you want to do this, Tully?"

"Yep, as sure as I am about anything." Tully walked straight past them, leaving John and Troy behind. "Let's go. I'll drive."

* * *

There hadn't been much trouble signing the Jeep out.

Troy thanked God that most of the guys just assumed that Troy, or any member of the Rat Patrol, had a blank check as needed in order to do Boggs' bidding. Even if Boggs had no idea that they were going anywhere, Troy didn't bother to correct anyone's assumptions.

The sentry at the camp's entrance had waved them through with barely a look. "Curfew is at . . . Oh, never mind," the corporal said with a wave of his hand. "Just try to be back before tomorrow morning, will ya?"

John nodded at the sentry and waved. "From his mouth to God's ear," he said to Troy.

The ride through the desert was just as uneventful as it had been the day before, even as they drove farther into German territory. They stopped at the same place where they had spent the afternoon before spying on the POW camp.

John watched as Troy and Tully changed into their German jackets. "Who knew that it was Halloween already?"

Troy grinned. "How do we look?"

"Good enough to shoot," John answered. "Plan still the same?"

"Yep," Troy squinted at the camp and then at the road behind them. "From what we saw yesterday, there are trucks in and out of that place all day. We're going to hitch a ride."

"So far, so good." John handed Troy a cigarette.

"After we go in, we thought that we'd find our friend Captain Dietrich. I'm sure that he'll be glad to see us."

"I bet that he's missed us, Sarge. It's been weeks since we've see him," Tully said with a grin.

"And then, you'll be waiting for us, not far outside the gates, John. We'll get in, find out what we need to know and then get out." Troy smiled. "Easy."

"If you say so," John said, skeptically. "And are you bringing anyone out with you?"

Troy had thought about that. "Moffitt, if we can find him. But not anyone else unless we absolutely need to. I mean, I'd like nothing more than to break all of those guys out of there, but we don't have the man power or the transportation for that today. We'll have to wait until we have authorization from Boggs for that."

"And we don't even have authorization for this."

"Right," Troy admitted.

John shrugged. "But if Operation Sandstorm is successful, then I guess everyone is getting out soon anyway."

"I guess," Troy said. He, too, had heard that Sandstorm would mark the beginning of the end of the war. But then, he'd heard that before. Like everyone else, he'd just have to wait and see.

"Hey, Sarge," Tully said, binoculars to his eyes. "I think that our ride is on its way."

Troy looked behind them. Sure enough, he could see the telltale cloud of dust that often signaled the movement of a bigger vehicle across the desert roads. "I think that you're right, Tully. All right, let's get down there and catch it."

"Yep." Tully started to strap on his Wehrmacht helmet.

It reminded Troy to remove his bush hat and replace it with something more suitable. He looked over at John. "We'll see you soon."

"Here's hoping. I'll have the meter running, so you'd better be quick."


	9. When Good Men Go to War

It had been a German supply truck full of food that provided Troy and Tully with their way into the camp.

They had met the truck about a mile outside of the camp. With the driver easily dispensed with, Troy and Tully had jumped in and continued its route. Getting through the gate had been easier than Troy would have suspected, and Tully's useful German phrases had definitely helped.

Troy also supposed that it didn't hurt that they were breaking into a POW camp. It probably wasn't something that anyone much thought to watch out for.

They had found the mess without much problem. When they parked the truck, a group of POWs and a few guards appeared to help to unload it.

Troy looked at Tully and nodded. They slipped away from the truck and into the camp. They had spent enough time observing it the day before to feel like they had a good handle on where everything was. Even if they hadn't, the Kommandant's building would have been easy to spot.

Posted up outside, Troy lit a cigarette and Tully stuck a matchstick in his mouth. They waited for a few minutes until a lieutenant came out of the building, going down the stairs and then disappearing into the camp. Troy looked at Tully again, and when the guy was out of sight, they went in.

There were no guards inside that Troy could see. Straight past the entrance was an empty desk, and right past that was a door with a placard proclaiming "Kommandant" on it.

It was nice, thought Troy, German efficiency had made everything so easy to find. He looked at the desk and Tully followed his gaze. Tully went over to it and took a seat. With barely a look behind him, Troy went up to the office door and opened it. Quickly, he stepped inside.

Dietrich was sitting at the desk, reading something. When he saw Troy, he looked up, with barely a trace of surprise.

"Sergeant Troy," said Dietrich. He put the papers aside. It wasn't lost on Troy that Dietrich left his hands on the desk where Troy could easily see them. "Good afternoon."

"Afternoon, Captain," said Troy. "Sorry just to drop by unannounced."

"Only you would break into a prisoner of war camp when everyone else is trying to escape." Dietrich frowned. "Will you be staying? I will be happy to extend the invitation."

"Thanks, but I wasn't really planning on it."

"Ah well, that is likely for the best. At least it is better that you are here rather than out harassing the Afrika Korps."

"Yeah, well, there'll be plenty of time for that tomorrow." Troy looked around the office, his eyes coming to rest on the ever present bust of Hitler. He was starting to wonder how many of them that there could possibly be in Africa. "Nice place you got here."

"Thank you. It is not permanent, but I am trying to make do." Dietrich inclined his head. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Sergeant?"

"I think that you know the reason why, Captain. But all the same, let me tell you. I'm looking for Moffitt. You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?"

Troy saw something odd in Dietrich's expression. He tried to put his finger on it, but couldn't. It wasn't fear, it wasn't anger. It wasn't even frustration, or self-righteous indignation at once again being bested. In short, it wasn't a look that Troy had ever seen on Dietrich's face before.

"Captain?" Troy asked in spite of himself. "Are you all right?"

"What?" Dietrich shook his head slightly. "Yes, yes, of course. So you are looking for Sergeant Moffitt?"

"Yes." Troy wondered if Dietrich had been sent to mind a POW camp because he had gotten a knock to the head. "I'm looking for Moffitt," Troy repeated, not so patiently. "Where is he? Don't try to tell me that you don't know."

Dietrich nodded. "I do know. But I am very surprised that you do not."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Dietrich got up from his desk and walked to the window, seemingly fixated on something outside. He was quiet for a few moments and then came back to his desk. His hand hovered over a wooden box. He looked to Troy for permission. "If I may, Sergeant?"

"Depends. What you got in there?" Troy asked, training his gun on Dietrich.

"Certainly not a weapon, if that is what you are thinking." Dietrich looked at Troy and sighed. "Of course that is what you are thinking. I assure you that you are incorrect. May I?"

Troy gestured with the gun. "Go ahead, nice and slow." He watched as Dietrich opened the lid of the box and then pulled something small out of it. Curious, Troy tried to figure out what it was.

Dietrich opened his hand. Troy immediately recognized the objects sitting in Dietrich's palm.

Troy knew that they were the tags of an English soldier. He also instinctively knew that they were Moffitt's.

"Where's Moffitt, Dietrich? I'm not going to ask you again."

Dietrich looked down. "I am afraid, Sergeant Troy, that Sergeant Moffitt is dead."

"I don't believe you," Troy said. Though, honestly, part of him did. The other part railed against the idea that Moffitt could possibly be dead.

Dietrich came around to sit on the edge of his desk. "We have not yet buried Sergeant Moffitt's body. I am not sure as to why I did not let them." He looked away. "Perhaps, I was hoping that you would come for him."

"What?" Troy felt hot and then cold. Grief and then anger flooded over him. He rushed at Dietrich and grabbed the man by the neck. "You bastard! You killed Moffitt!"

"I did not kill him," Dietrich managed to choke out as Troy throttled him. "He was dead when he arrived here. I assure you, I am not responsible for what happened to him!"

"I don't believe you!" Troy realized that he was not getting nearly as much satisfaction as he should be from squeezing the life out of Dietrich. Troy released him. "I don't believe you," Troy repeated more calmly.

Dietrich rubbed his neck and swallowed hard. "I am hardly surprised by that. I will take you to him. Unless you would like to continue strangling me?" He looked at Troy and when he got no response, Dietrich nodded. "No? Very good then. Let us go."

Dietrich went to the door and opened it, Troy following behind him. Tully got up when he saw them, taking his place in line behind Troy. When they got to the front porch of the building, they met Dietrich's Lieutenant coming up the stairs.

Troy tensed, ready to start shooting first and ask questions later if Dietrich didn't behave himself.

The lieutenant stopped, puzzled. "Herr Hauptmann? Who are these men?"

"Oh, they are the drivers. From the delivery truck," Dietrich answered.

"And what business do they have with you?" The lieutenant glared at Troy and Tully. "I signed the paper work for them. There is no reason why they should bother the Kommandant."

"It is all right. Apparently, it is a new policy. I will take care of it."

"I do mind, but I suppose I will take that up with their commanding officer." The lieutenant gave Troy and Tully another nasty look.

Troy, who had no idea what the Germans were saying, started counting how many possible targets he had between where they stood and the gate, right outside of which he knew John would be waiting for them.

He threw a questioning look at Tully, wondering if he knew enough German to figure out what was going on. When Tully shrugged, Troy went back to counting.

"Really," said Dietrich, "It is fine. I am sure that you will straighten it out immediately."

Finally, the lieutenant said, "Jawohl, mein Herr," and went into the building, obviously agitated, taking the stairs two at a time.

Troy looked at Dietrich. "Alles gut?" Troy asked him.

When Dietrich rolled his eyes, Troy could only presume that it was at his accent. He hardly cared.

"Alles gut," Dietrich finally answered. He motioned for Troy and Tully to go to the left.

They walked past the prison yard. Troy kept his head down and Tully did the same. If the Red Cross could be believed, John's guys were interred there. And God knew who else was in the camp that they may have crossed paths with at some point during the war. The German uniform was a nice distraction, but Troy didn't trust it to keep him and Tully from being recognized and called out by one of the prisoners.

Soon enough, they found themselves almost to the outer edge of the camp. Dietrich was leading them to a small covered truck. When they reached the truck, Dietrich stopped and turned to Troy and Tully.

"Sergeant," Dietrich began slowly. Then he stopped. Finally, he looked Troy in the eye and then looked to the truck, before looking back at Troy.

Troy couldn't help but to swallow against the bile that was rising in his throat at the utter horror of the realization that Dietrich had been telling him the truth. "Moffitt?"

"Yes."

"Cover him, Tully. If anything starts to look funny, shoot him." Troy moved to push the flap of the cover back and to climb into the back of the truck. A hand caught his arm. Troy looked at the hand and then at Dietrich.

"Sergeant, I feel that I must say something. Warn you."

"Warn me about what?" Troy waited.

Dietrich looked pale under his tan. "What you are going to see is not going to be pleasant. Particularly for you, considering . . ."

"Considering what?" Troy angrily pulled away from Dietrich and put his foot up on the bumper of the truck. He climbed up and in.

The inside of the truck was dark and it took Troy's eyes a moment to adjust. There was an odd smell, he realized, besides what he would expect from a body that had been decomposing for a day or so in the desert heat. Troy looked at the covered lump that lay against the cab of the truck.

Troy took a deep breath and willed himself to bend down and grab the edge of the blanket.

"The body. Sergeant Moffitt. He has been very severely burned, Sergeant Troy." Dietrich's voice carried into the truck at the exact moment that Troy had pulled back the cover.

The smell . . . It had been the smell of smoke, of burned flesh and hair. The realization hit Troy like a hard punch in the gut. He reeled back, as much from the stench as from the memories that it brought back to him. It was all that he could do not to be sick.

Troy found himself sitting on the bed of the truck, beside the corpse. He willed himself to look at it again. Then with a sudden deliberate movement, he completely pulled the cover from it.

Again, Troy felt the nausea rise, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead and trickling down the back of his neck.

"Jesus," Troy said softly, looking at the body for a moment more. "Jesus, Jack."

Troy bowed his head and swallowed against his tears. Finally, he replaced the blanket and inhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. Taking another breath, Troy managed to get to his feet and make it out of the back of the truck.

Back in the sun and the sand, Troy put a hand on the side of vehicle to steady himself. He met Dietrich's eyes. Troy was surprised at the emotion that he saw there.

"I am so sorry," Dietrich said, "that it had to end like this."

Troy accepted the condolences of his enemy with a nod. "Me too."

Tully looked at Troy and then started to move to climb into the back of the truck himself. Troy was grateful when Dietrich reached out and stopped Tully.

Tully tried to break Dietrich's hold. "Let me go," he told him. "I want to see him."

"No," Dietrich said, calmly. "You do not."

"Don't tell me what I want, you lousy Kraut." Tully was as angry as Troy had ever seen him. Tully shoved Dietrich away from him and then moved to pull himself into the back of the truck.

Troy caught Tully by the back of the jacket and pulled him down. "He's right, Tully. There's no reason for you to see that."

Tully, red faced, looked at Troy. "It's Moffitt? You're sure, Sarge?"

"Yeah. I'm sure."

Tully slammed his hand against the side of the truck and then walked away, his back to Troy and Dietrich.

Dietrich watched Tully. "They were close, were they not?"

Troy nodded, despite his own grief, his heart was breaking for Tully. "Yeah, they were. Unlikely, I know."

"Unlikely things happen when good men go to war." Dietrich shrugged. He reached into his tunic and took out a packet of cigarettes. He offered Troy one. "But then, you are all close. Even if I did not know it for certain, which I do, it would have been obvious to anyone who has seen the way that you work together."

Troy took the cigarette and let Dietrich light it for him. He took a drag, glad for the smoke of the cigarette as he exhaled it through his nose. It was a welcome replacement for the stench which was still lingering in his nostrils.

"I am truly sorry, Sergeant Troy," Dietrich said again.

And as hard as it was to believe, especially considering how many times Dietrich had tried to kill them all, Troy knew that Dietrich was sincere.

Troy and Dietrich smoked in silence.

During the time that it took him to finish the cigarette, Troy had relived his entire time with Moffitt. From the day that Troy had met him, all English manners and bravado, until just a few moments before when Troy had pulled the blanket back.

Troy dropped his cigarette butt into the sand and ground it out with heel of his boot. He looked over to where Tully still stood.

"Come on, Tully, we've got to go." Troy turned to Dietrich. "We're taking Moffitt with us."

Dietrich nodded. "Of course. You will take the truck. I can guarantee you safe passage out of the camp. Unfortunately, I will be unable to guarantee you anything beyond that."

"Thanks." Troy noticed that Tully hadn't moved. "Tully! I said, come on! Get in the truck. You're driving."

Tully finally moved, turning back towards them and getting into the cab of the truck as ordered. Dietrich and Troy both avoided looking directly at Tully and at the evidence of the tears that he had shed for Moffitt.

The engine of the truck started. Troy looked at Dietrich. "Get in with Tully. I want to make sure that there's no funny stuff on our way out. I'm not really in the mood."

Dietrich raised an eyebrow. "And you?"

Troy couldn't help but to grimace. "I'll ride in the back until we're out of the camp."

"As you wish."

It took everything that Troy had to haul himself back up into the back of the truck again. He took a seat beside Moffitt and hoped that it would be a quick trip.

It didn't take long for the truck to roll to a stop. Troy assumed that they were stopped at the guard shack at the gate, based on the fact that he heard Dietrich giving orders to someone. The truck started moving again and Troy held his breath until they stopped.

"Who's this?" Troy heard John ask. "Where's Sam, Tully?"

Troy took that as his cue to get out of the back of the truck. "Right here, Chief."

John looked at him, expression grim. "Where's Moffitt?"

Troy looked over his shoulder at the truck and shook his head.

"Oh. Jesus, no." John put his hand on Troy's shoulder. "I am sorry, Sam."

"Thanks, John. I know that you are." Troy looked through the window of the truck. Tully was sitting stone still, his eyes straight ahead.

"How?"

Troy realized that he didn't know. He looked over at Dietrich.

"Based on what I understand, Sergeant Moffitt died saving the crew of his tank," Dietrich answered. "He died a hero's death."

"Of course he did," Troy said softly, barely able to get the words past the lump in his throat. He'd have expected nothing less. At least, thought Troy, Moffitt had died for something.

"Jack died saving my boys," said John, his voice sounding choked. "God rest his soul."

"John, we need to be getting a move on. Can you drive the Jeep back? I don't think Tully is moving from where he is. I'll ride with him."

"Yeah, sure." John jerked his head at Dietrich. "What about him? He coming with us?"

"No, he's staying here. It's not much of a walk back to the camp. I'm sure that the Captain will make it just fine." Troy looked at Dietrich for confirmation.

"Of course," Dietrich agreed.

"Well, then, we'd all better go our separate ways, I guess."

There was an awkward pause. Troy felt like he should thank Dietrich, though he wasn't sure for what. Instead, he raised his hand in a salute.

Dietrich returned the salute. Then, without another word, he turned and started walking back to the camp.


	10. The Interviews

"Herr Hauptmann, where have you been?"

"Out." Dietrich, miserably hot and dusty from his walk back to the camp, didn't so much as look at Wagner as he passed his desk on the way into his own office.

Wagner got up and followed Dietrich. "Herr Hauptmann, I thought that it was important to let you know. Those two men, they were not the drivers of the supply truck."

Dietrich sank into his chair and looked at up Wagner with weary eyes. "I know."

"You knew?" Wagner looked shocked. "Who were they? Do you know that as well? Are they still in the camp?"

Dietrich poured some water from the carafe on his desk and then lit a cigarette. "Yes, I know who they are. They are not still in the camp. They took what they came for and then left." Dietrich exhaled a stream of smoke. "Those, Leutnant Wagner, were two of the three remaining members of the Rat Patrol."

Wagner, an expression of shock on his face, sat down in the chair across from Dietrich's desk. "No! Really?"

Dietrich nodded.

Looking incredulous, Wagner lit his own cigarette. "I cannot believe it." He thought for a moment. "I do not know what I was expecting." He looked at Dietrich. "Something more, perhaps?"

Not able to stop himself, Dietrich chuckled. "Oh, they are quite enough, trust me. What exactly was it that you were anticipating, Wagner?"

Wagner thought about that. "Everyone in the Wehrmacht has heard of their antics, what they can achieve with four men and two Jeeps. Super men, perhaps? Seven feet tall and breathing fire?"

"Well, they made it into the camp, achieved their mission, and abducted me. All right under your nose, in broad daylight. As normal as they look, you have to admit that it was impressive."

"Abducted you?" Wagner appeared to be scanning Dietrich for injuries. When he found none, he seemed skeptical.

Dietrich knew that Wagner was quite correctly thinking that he had hardly been "abducted," but instead had willingly accompanied Troy and his man out of the camp. He waited for Wagner to say something. After all, it would not be the first time that Dietrich had been suspected of colluding with the Rat Patrol by his fellow officers.

Even if this time, the suspicion was completely correct.

Wagner, thankfully was smart enough to not voice whatever it was that he had been thinking. "What was their mission?" he asked instead.

"They came to find their comrade. I am afraid that they thought that they would find him alive. Instead . . ." Dietrich sighed. "And instead, they left with his body."

"Well, at least they left. And left quietly. It is as you said, isn't it?"

"What?"

"That they would not rest until they either rescued their man or found him dead."

Dietrich nodded. That was what he had said, that was what he always said. How many times had he maintained that to anyone that would listen? And it had held true. There had been no violence, no harm to anyone in the camp. And other than Troy's immediate reaction to kill him when he had found out, there had been no threat to Dietrich's own life. Troy had found what he had come for, even if was not what he had wanted, and had left without incident.

Wagner looked relived that any threat from the Rat Patrol appeared to have passed easily. "Well, I am glad that we did not bury the body, then. It was quite clever of Kriminalkomissar Freitag to bring it here, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Bader gave him good advice." Clever, thought Dietrich. Yes, that was a word. No one would ever excuse Wilhelm of not being clever.

"Oh!" Wagner snapped his fingers. "I meant to tell you. I spoke to Leutnant Bader. He apologized that his entire report did not reach you, Herr Hauptmann. He has sent it by messenger. And he told me to tell you hello and that he was sorry that he missed his opportunity to speak with you."

Dietrich was not entirely unhappy that he had not been there when Bader had made contact with his office. Bader would have been expecting praise for recent victory, and rightfully so. However, with the memories of how deeply Sergeant Troy and Private Pettigrew had felt their loss, Dietrich was uncertain whether he could have sincerely said the words that Bader deserved to hear.

Finally, Dietrich smiled. "Bader is doing well. It is good that he has had this chance to command our unit on his own. I am proud of him."

"I am sure that would mean much to him to hear that, Herr Hauptmann."

If Bader survived his command, Dietrich made a mental note to tell him exactly that. "Anything else of interest happen while I was out, Wagner?" Dietrich rubbed the space between his eyes, trying to chase away the headache that was forming there.

"No, not much. And nothing that should disturb your afternoon. There is one thing that you should probably care for today, though." Wagner looked at Dietrich. "If you like, if not, I would be happy to do it."

"And what is that?"

"The four new prisoners that were brought in yesterday. The Red Cross and the Wehrmacht require them to be interviewed within the first twenty-four hours of their confinement."

"Not an interrogation?" Dietrich knew that he was not up to that.

"Oh, no. As you know, they were questioned right after they were processed. We do not generally question them again unless there is need." Wagner got to his feet. "You speaking with them is merely a formality. To welcome them to the camp, to ensure that their needs are being met, that they are being treated well."

Dietrich felt as exhausted as he ever had out in the field. Grief was wearing, even if it was truly not one's own. Wagner's offer to do his duty for him was a tempting one.

"As I said, I would be happy to do it. I did them all the time for the prior Kommandant."

"And who is supposed to conduct them?"

Wagner smiled and looked down. "The Kommandant, of course."

"Of course." Dietrich nodded. "I will perform the interviews. You can supply me with the appropriate forms?" With both the military and the Red Cross involved, Dietrich could be certain that there were a multitude of forms involved.

"Certainly. Would you prefer that the men are brought here? Or would you like to see them in the barracks?"

"I can see them in the barracks."

"Very good, Herr Hauptmann. Let me get you the forms that you will need to complete." Wagner left the office and could be heard opening and closing the drawers of his desk.

Looking out the window, Dietrich wondered what the men were like for whom Jack Moffitt had given his life.

* * *

Dietrich had met the men individually, and then had met with them as a group.

There were four of them, all that was left out of a six man tank crew. There was Higgins, or "Iggy" as he had asked to be called, Thompson, Taylor, and Smith. They were, like most of the enlisted prisoners that the camp held, extremely affable. Dietrich chalked it up to the irritating America tendency of behaving as though one had never met a stranger.

But all in all, Dietrich determined they were nice young men. He would place them between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two. They were not that dissimilar from the young men that were under his command, those that drove and who sometimes died in the tanks of the Wehrmacht.

How many young men had died in this war, from either side, wondered Dietrich? And if not for Troy's Jack Moffitt, these men would likely have died as well. But instead, they were alive and well, siting before him. And even though Dietrich had no relationship with these men, as he had with his own, he was happy for them. Happy that they were alive, even if they were now prisoners. Dietrich knew for certain, after talking to them, that all of these young men had wives or sweethearts at home, sisters and brothers, anxious mothers and fathers who would not be upset that these soldiers were now prisoners of war. At least they were safe, protected from the claws of death by razor wire.

Dietrich had nodded, smiled, and asked the appropriate questions, both from a conversational point of view and as needed to gather the information necessary to complete the required forms.

Iggy was more than happy to show Dietrich a picture of the pretty red haired girl that was his wife and two small toddlers.

Thompson had shown Dietrich a picture of his parents, much older people than what Dietrich had expected, and his dog.

Taylor and Smith didn't share as much personal information, but instead asked if there was a camp baseball league. Taylor, in particular, dreamed of being a professional athlete after the war. It was a lofty dream, but Dietrich did nothing to discourage it. He affirmed that there was indeed a baseball league. By the end of their exchange, Dietrich had even agreed to attend a game or two to watch Taylor play.

When the conversation reached a lull, Dietrich checked the forms to make sure that he had not missed any pertinent detail. Satisfied, he shuffled the papers into a neat pile and capped his pen.

"Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate you speaking me with me," Dietrich said. "Is there anything else that I might do for you now?"

The four men looked at each other. Iggy, obviously their leader, cleared his throat. "There is one thing, sir."

Dietrich nodded. "Yes?"

"Well, we were brought here." Iggy looked at his three teammates. "But we're missing two guys who were with us when we got captured. Do you know where they are? Did they go to another camp?"

Thinking back to what he had of Bader's report, Dietrich frowned. It clearly had stated that four men had been taken and delivered to him. "The other two men? I am sorry, Corporal, you have me at a disadvantage. Do you have their names? I would be happy to check for you."

"That would be swell, Captain. One guy's name is Tom Adams. Private. He was our navigator."

"Very good." Dietrich nodded and wrote the name down. "The other man?"

"Well, he wasn't exactly part of our crew but he was with us. English guy, a sergeant."

Dietrich's pen stopped. He looked up. "And what is his name?"

"I don't rightly know his first name." Iggy looked to his fellows. They all shook their heads. "Last name is Moffitt though."

For a moment, Dietrich didn't know what to say. Finally, he found his tongue. "And these men were captured with you? You saw these men taken from your tank, alive?"

Frowning, Iggy nodded. "Why yes, sir, Captain. We sure did."

The others nodded as well.

"Were the men injured?" Dietrich asked, his mind whirling. "Sometimes the injured men are taken to a field hospital before they are brought here."

Looking relieved, Iggy nodded. "Yeah, they were both burned. Moffitt more so than Adams. When the tank caught fire, Adams was stuck in there. Moffitt got him out. Singed his arms and his back pretty good." Iggy winced. "Looked bad, but he was taking it pretty well. Said he'd had worse. You know what those Brits are like. Stiff upper lip and all that."

"I am sure." Dietrich nodded and wrote something else. Though at this point, he hardly needed to be taking notes. However, looking down to write gave him excuse to hide his expression, which he was sure was one of pure shock.

Finally, when he trusted his face, Dietrich looked up. "Well, that is very helpful, Corporal."

"Do you think that you'll find out what happened to them, sir? Do you think they'll end up here with us?"

"I do actually," Dietrich said, thoughtfully. "I really do."


	11. To What End

"Wagner! Did Bader's messenger arrive with that report?"

Wagner visibly jumped, startled by Dietrich's sudden and loud reappearance. "Yes, sir. Right here."

Dietrich took the dispatch from the Leutnant, not even bothering to stop. He went into his office and closed the door firmly behind him. He dropped the report on his desk and then went to side board to pour himself a stiff drink. As an afterthought, he took the entire bottle with him to his desk as well.

Drink in hand, he sat down behind his desk and opened the envelope.

There was a copy of the report that he had seen earlier. Dietrich flipped aside the first few pages until he got to the part that had previously been missing.

And there it was.

Bader's report detailed clearly that six men had been taken, all alive. Two with injuries, burns. One of the men was the notorious commando, Sergeant Jack Moffitt of the Rat Patrol. The other man was an America private, Thomas Adams. Their identification numbers followed their names. The report also stated that they had been transferred to a holding location where their injuries could be treated before they would be processed as prisoners of war.

Dietrich let the report drop from his hands. He freshened his drink and then lit a cigarette. Staring out the window at nothing, Dietrich allowed his mind to wander.

The report itself did not necessarily mean that Jack Moffitt and the other man, Adams, were still living. After all, many things could have befallen them on either their way to, or from, the medical facilities.

Then Dietrich recalled his conversation with Wilhelm about Moffitt. Wilhelm had plainly said that Bader's attack had killed Moffitt, that he had burned in the tank with another man. However, the men with whom he had just spoken and Bader's report clearly stated that not to be the case. All signs pointed to the fact that Wilhelm had been intentionally hiding the truth from him, Dietrich realized. It could not be denied, the events of that afternoon had fed those suspicions quite nicely.

But to what possible end, Dietrich wondered?

He finished both his cigarette and his drink. With each passing moment, the question continued to haunt him. Why would Wilhelm have been dishonest with him? What possible reason could there be?

And not only had Wilhelm deceived him, he had gone to great lengths to do so. Bringing his prisoner into the camp with his face concealed, removing the pertinent pages for Bader's report, and, the most elaborate part of the ruse, presenting Dietrich with the dead body of goodness knew whom.

To what end, Dietrich asked himself again?

The longer that he thought about it, the more certain that Dietrich became that he would drive himself to madness. Looking at the half empty bottle of alcohol on his desk, Dietrich thought that it might be driving him to alcoholism as well.

Finally, Dietrich decided that there was only one way to answer his questions.

* * *

Dietrich tried to calm himself.

He was not used to being denied his requests by men that he outranked. Apparently, the Gestapo had no respect for a Wehrmacht officer, or for anyone, but themselves. Dietrich's first request to see Wilhelm or his prisoner had been brusquely rebuffed by Kauffmann. The second attempt, which really Dietrich could admit had been more of a threat than a request, had been met with a revolver.

Fuming, Dietrich left the area of the infirmary where Wilhelm and his prisoner were secluded. Still angry, he started to stalk out of the building. His curiosity at why Wilhelm had lied to him was quickly being replaced by a dark rage, almost entirely directed at one of his oldest friends.

However, he stopped when he walked by Doktor Hoffman's office and saw the man sitting at his desk. "Doktor Hoffman, how are you?"

The doktor looked up from the medical journal that he had been reading. He smiled at Dietrich. "I am well, Hauptmann Dietrich. And yourself?"

"Well, thank you." Dietrich gestured to the chair. "May I?"

"Oh, certainly. Please do. May I offer you something to drink?" Hoffman reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle of schnapps. "Medicinal purposes only, I assure you." He gave a broad wink.

Dietrich grinned. "Why not? If schnapps is what Herr Doktor is ordering?"

"It is indeed." Hoffman also produced two glasses and poured a measure in each. He gave one to Dietrich. "Prost."

"Prost." Dietrich took a drink of the schnapps. "This is very good," he said, surprised.

Hoffman shrugged. "Your predecessor may not have been the most ethical man, but he certainly was very generous with his ill-gotten gains."

"I see." Dietrich smiled. "I am sorry that I will likely be in no position as to be so generous."

"I would be more disappointed if you were. The camp is doing well under your leadership, Herr Hauptmann. Much better actually. Though, I am not surprised. A leader on the battlefield can be a leader anywhere. Your father would have been proud of you. As would General Herzog. They both did an admirable job of ensuring that you became a fine man, if I may so."

Dietrich nodded, accepting the compliment with pleasure. "Thank you. I remember when we first met you had told me that you knew both of them."

"Oh, yes. Wonderful men. They met each other while under my care during the first war and became lifelong friends. Did you know that?"

"I knew that they met when they both had been injured in battle, but I did not realize that you were their physician." Dietrich smiled at the man. It was easy to forget that the pottering old soul who filled the role of the camp doctor was a full Oberst who had risked his life tending to the wounded during the First World War.

"I heard about the General's defection. Truly a shame that the Wehrmacht lost such a fine man."

Dietrich nodded. "It is indeed. But in the end, he made the choice that he felt that he needed to make."

"I certainly do not blame him for that choice. I would not want my children raised in the madness that has overtaken Germany." Hoffman shook his head. "I could no longer stand to be there myself."

Dietrich took a sip of his schnapps. "Really?" he asked, interested.

Hoffman nodded emphatically. "Why do you think that I am spending what should be my retirement here? I will tell you why, young man: I felt better about being in this God forsaken desert with Herr General Rommel than in Hitler's Germany."

Dietrich easily recalled how, under the influence of the Nazi ideology, General Herzog's young daughter was going to shoot her father as a traitor to the Reich, without remorse. It had been the worst thing that Dietrich had ever seen.

"No," said Hoffman again. "I cannot blame General Herzog. You are lucky to have been in the field for so long, Herr Hauptmann. You have not had to witness the madness that has overtaken Germany as otherwise decent people fall under the thrall of the Fuhrer."

Dietrich thought of Wilhelm. The desert was not offering him the protection from the epidemic of madness that Hoffman had assumed.

"I do hope that the choices with which we are faced are easier," Hoffman said finally, raising his glass.

"I will drink to that." Dietrich raised his glass in return. "Do you have any patients currently, Doktor?"

"Well, only the one. But he seems to be more of a patient of the Gestapo than mine." Hoffman looked irritated.

"Why would you say that?"

"Kriminalkomissar Freitag brings that man in here, into my infirmary, and then, he proceeds to forbid me see to him after the initial examination!"

Dietrich nodded. He could sympathize with the man's ire at not being allowed to see the prisoner.

"And the man obviously needs care. Burns require constant attention to prevent infection and further damage. Do you know how many burn patients I have seen die of sepsis, Dietrich?"

"Certainly, I know that is a risk. And you have not been allowed to administer him any additional treatment of any kind?" Dietrich leaned forward and allowed Hoffman to refill his glass.

"No. None other than the initial examination. Freitag told me that he that he would care for the man's medical needs." Hoffman snorted. "But while he is a doctor, he is a neurologist! He is also Gestapo, so I doubt that he would trouble himself too much with the wellbeing of the man. All he wants is the information that the prisoner can provide."

"What of the man's injuries? Was he badly burned?"

"Yes, very badly in some places. His hands and his forearms were burned, as was his back. Nasty wounds, burns are." Hoffman grimaced. "But oddly enough, though his face was wrapped, both Freitag and he both told me that there are only minor injuries to it. The man was lucky, I suppose, if you could consider being held by a prisoner of the Gestapo lucky."

Dietrich narrowed his eyes. "You said his back and his arms were burned?"

"Yes. The back is the worst of it. It is fortunate, though, that none of damage extends past the dermis into the muscle and bones. At that point, well," Hoffman paused and spread his hands, "there is not much we can do to help to prevent permanent deformation and injury."

"Yes, I understand."

And Dietrich did, more so with every word. The information of the prisoner's wounds matched the description that Iggy had given Dietrich of Moffitt's injuries.

"Is there anything that you can tell me about the man, Herr Doktor?" Dietrich wasn't sure as to why he asked, as he knew more about Moffitt than Hoffman would ever know.

"No, not much else. I do not even know his name."

"His nationality?" Dietrich asked, idly turning his once again empty glass in his hand. He supposed that he was just being masochistic at this point.

"Oh, he is an Englander."

"You are certain?"

"I lived in London for many years after the first war. I was a surgeon there, I had quite the practice, if I do say so myself. Of course I know an Englander when I hear one." Hoffman looked at the bottle and gestured for Dietrich's glass.

Dietrich held up his hand. "No thank you, though I do appreciate your generosity."

"Certainly." Hoffman looked at the bottle one more time and then put it back into his desk drawer. "Moderation is key, do you not agree, Dietrich?"

"In all things." Dietrich smiled. "Will you let me know if you do see the patient again?"

"Absolutely. Though I am doubtful that I will." Hoffman shrugged. "I suppose it is for the best. There is no point in forming any kind of relationship with him. I am sure that Freitag will kill him once he is done with him. Is that not what the Gestapo does?"

"I could not say," Dietrich said, despite suspecting that Wilhelm had already killed the man once. "Is the prisoner in any evident distress?"

"I have not heard screaming or any of the other sounds that would signify that he is being tortured. If that is what you meant?"

Dietrich nodded. It had been exactly what he had meant.

"No, nothing like that."

"Herr Doktor, I have enjoyed our time together. Thank you for the conversation and the schnapps." Dietrich got up and then offered his hand to Hoffman. "If there is anything else . . ."

Hoffman took Dietrich's hand and shook it. "You will be the first to know, Hauptmann Dietrich."

* * *

Dietrich had been looking forward to dinner, if for no other reason than it would give him the opportunity to talk to Wilhelm.

But when it had approached eighteen hundred hours, an orderly from the infirmary had delivered the message that Kriminalkomissar Freitag would not be joining the Hauptmann for dinner. Apparently, the Kriminalkomissar's work was going to go late in to the evening.

Despite his frustration, Dietrich arranged for Wilhelm to be served at the infirmary.

Dietrich, left to his own devices, drank his dinner.

All the while, he considered what he knew.

The man that Wilhelm was questioning was without a doubt in Dietrich's mind, Sergeant Jack Moffitt. Dietrich was not sure if he was truly surprised to find that the man was alive. Out of Troy's entire crew, the Englander seemed to have been especially charmed with a cat like ability to avoid death.

Dietrich supposed he would have been more surprised if Moffitt had actually been dead.

And if he recalled his dinner conversation with Wilhelm accurately from the previous evening, Moffitt apparently had some knowledge of a large Allied military initiative. While in the Wehrmacht, it would be unusual that a man with such a low rank would have any information of interest, it was not hard for Dietrich to believe that Troy and Moffitt knew more than the average sergeants of any army.

It did not bother Dietrich that Wilhelm was questioning Moffitt. In all respects, Dietrich whole heartedly supported Wilhelm in his mission gain information from the man. If the detail that Moffitt could provide was going to stop another Allied victory and more loss of German life, then so be it. In a war, knowledge was power.

What did matter to Dietrich, and it continued to matter regardless of how much he told himself that it should not, was that Wilhelm had been so dishonest in his pretense.

It also mattered very much to Dietrich that Troy thought Moffitt dead.

Though, Dietrich could admit, Wilhelm's had been a brilliant ruse. Troy would have hardly left so quietly if he had any suspicion that Moffitt was still alive. It had bought Wilhelm the time to question Moffitt, if all signs could be believed, humanely.

After most of a bottle of cognac, Dietrich had applied all logic and reason to the events of the past few days. And he had finally made peace with most of it.

Most of it, with the exception of one thing that remained. That one thing kept eating at him long into the night.

Dietrich still could not comprehend as to why Wilhelm had felt the need to dupe him along with everyone else.

However, as much as that thought troubled his conscious mind, Dietrich's subconscious was obviously troubled by something else. For in his dreams that night, what haunted Dietrich was not the betrayal that he had felt at Wilhelm's hands.

Instead, it was the image of Troy's grief stricken face.


	12. An Interesting Case

The next day brought the dawn, and to Dietrich, a more than slight hangover.

After he had witnessed roll call of the prisoners and then inspected his own staff, Dietrich had quickly enjoyed a cup of coffee. It was real coffee at that, which Wagner had brewed for him that morning, and every morning. Apparently, there had been no end to the illicit goods that his predecessor had stockpiled. Dietrich was certain that that the cache had not been worth the man's honor, and ultimately, his life. However, if Dietrich was anything, he was a pragmatist and he was not averse to enjoying the ill gotten gains while he could.

Dietrich had showered and then shaved. He was going to see Wilhelm and he was going to have answers. After all, Dietrich told himself as he buttoned his blouse, it was his camp. He had every right to know what was going on it.

All the while as he completed his toilet, Dietrich thought about what he was going to say to Wilhelm. He resolved that he would not be turned away as he had been the night before. The Gestapo goons would have to kill him to stop him from getting the answers that he wanted, and deserved.

There was a knock at the door of his quarters.

"Yes?" Dietrich called.

"Herr Hauptmann, Kriminalkomissar Freitag has requested that you join him at the Infirmary. What shall I tell him?" Wagner asked.

Dietrich raised an eyebrow at his own reflection as he combed his hair. "Tell him that I will be right there."

Dietrich walked to the infirmary and wondered why he was being summoned. He was not sure that he cared. He cared only about getting answers from Wilhelm. Whatever Wilhelm wanted could wait until he had received his due.

Dietrich went to the room where he knew Moffitt was being kept. Kauffmann was still standing outside of the door. The man gave Dietrich the party salute.

Dietrich pointedly ignored it. "Please tell Kriminalkomissar Freitag that I am here as he requested."

"Yes, Herr Hauptmann." Kauffmann disappeared down the hallway.

Dietrich waited impatiently for a few moments. When a few more minutes had passed, he looked at his watch. As the seconds ticked by, Dietrich's irritation grew. Finally, Dietrich decided the hell with waiting. He put his hand on the doorknob, wondering if the door was locked.

"Looking for me?" Wilhelm asked.

Dietrich nearly jumped. "I was." He turned to face Wilhelm.

"Curiosity getting the better of you, Hans?" Wilhelm nodded at the closed door. "You are very interested in the identity of my prisoner, are you not?"

"I believe that I may already know who your prisoner is. What I am very interested in is confirming if I am correct."

Wilhelm nodded and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. "I believe that you may be. Which is why I wanted to see you. Come with me."

Dietrich followed Wilhelm to the infirmary's clinic. From the look of it, Wilhelm had been using it as an office.

Wilhelm pointed to something that Dietrich recognized as an audio recording device. "I need for you to listen to this and translate it for me. Or at the very least, to tell me what language it is." He pushed a button and the reels of tape began to spin.

Puzzled, Dietrich listened. At first, he was distracted by the sound of the voice. It was with no small triumph that he recognized it as Moffitt's. Satisfied that he finally had absolute proof that Moffitt was alive, Dietrich made an effort to concentrate on what the man was saying.

Wilhelm stopped the playback of the recording. He looked at Dietrich with expectant eyes. "Well?"

"I am very sorry to disappoint you, Wilhelm." Dietrich shook his head. "I do not recognize the language that he is speaking."

"God damn it! I was really hoping you would." Wilhelm sat down on the examination table. He ran his hands through his hair and then nodded at the machine. "Keep listening until you figure it out," he ordered.

Frowning, Dietrich knew that he would be listening for a very long time. All the same, he pressed the button as Wilhelm had, and the tapes began to whirl. As Moffitt's rich voice filled the room, Dietrich again tried to comprehend the words that were being spoken. Again, none of it made any sense to him. It was merely a collection of sounds and intonations.

It was pointless, Dietrich knew. "It is the same. I have no idea what he is saying."

"Is it even a language? Or is it just gibberish?"

Dietrich considered. "I believe it to be an actual language," he said, finally. "There are patterns there, repeats of words, and phrases. Based on that I would say that it is not just something that the man made up."

"And it is not any of the native Afrikan dialects?"

"No, at least not one that I recognize."

"How many do you know?"

Dietrich shrugged. "Four. Maybe a stretch, and we could call it five."

"How many other languages would you recognize if you heard them? At least well enough to know what they were?"

Mentally, Dietrich counted, considering both the languages that were still spoken and the ones that were not. "Not counting the native dialects, I would say ten."

"You would recognize ten languages, and you have been all over the world, Hans. In all of your travels, you've never heard anything like this?"

"No. Not that I recall. I am sorry."

Wilhelm banged his hand against the metal table in frustration. The sound rang through the room. "What other languages do you think that my prisoner would know? Any that you would not?"

Dietrich narrowed his eyes at Wilhelm. "Why do you not admit to me exactly who your prisoner is? And then perhaps I will know better what he would or would not know."

"Oh for God's sake, Hans. You have obviously discovered my ruse, even before you listened to the recordings. When I saw you today, I could tell by the look in your eyes that you knew the prisoner was Sergeant Moffitt." Wilhelm slid from the table and went to the window. "I was aware that it would only be a matter of time before you figured it out. I only took the precautions that I that I felt that I needed to take for the short term."

"I would be interested in knowing why you felt that you needed to take any precaution at all with me?"

"Must we go through this now?" Wilhelm glared at Dietrich. "The lives of so many men, perhaps even our own, are at stake here. The very future success of the Reich could be dependent on the information that we have gotten from this prisoner."

Dietrich could hardly give a damn about the Reich, but what did matter to him was saving German lives. With effort, Dietrich put away his own anger and confusion for what he knew to be a much bigger thing. "Fine. I agree." Dietrich looked Wilhelm in the eye. "But later, we are discussing in great detail exactly why you felt the need to deceive me."

"Yes, yes, of course. I will be happy to explain everything."

Dietrich snorted. "I am sure that you will be, Wilhelm. Because I am not going to give you any choice."

"Understood, Hans. Now, back to the matter at hand. You do not recognize the language at all?" Wilhelm turned the machine on again. "Please? Listen again?"

Dietrich listened to the recording, Wilhelm's voice asking the question in English, and then Moffitt answering in whatever language he had chosen to use.

Closing his eyes, Dietrich concentrated on the intonation, the diction, the flow of the syllables.

The more that he listened, the more familiar that he found it. Gradually, a memory began to form.

Cool dry air, a rifle in his hands, his father walking beside of him, a shot fired and a creature falling. The realization that he for the first time he had killed something. Blood in the snow, and blood on his hands, a dead body growing cold as his father glowed warmly with pride.

Dietrich's eyes flew open.

"Yes? Did you recognize it?" Wilhelm asked eagerly, grabbing Dietrich by the shoulders. "You did, did you not, Hans? Tell me! What is it?"

"I cannot be sure," Dietrich said slowly, Moffitt's voice still playing in the background. "But I think that it is an American Indian dialect.

Wilhelm looked skeptical. "Why would you think that? That seems highly unlikely."

Dietrich continued to listen. He nodded, nearly certain that he was correct. "Do you remember when we were twelve, I travelled with my family to the United States?"

"That was nearly a dozen years ago, Hans. But yes, I remember. You missed three weeks of the school term, you lucky bastard. I, unfortunately, got beaten every day in your absence." Wilhelm winced at the memory.

"When we were there, my father arranged a hunting expedition for us. Our guides were American Indians. When they were not speaking to us, or when they did not want us to understand their conversation, they would talk amongst themselves in their own language. I remember listening to them and thinking how interesting it was, and how that it was likely older than any other language I knew. Even perhaps older than Latin or Greek."

"And with all these years gone, you believe this to be the same language?"

"I do, and if perhaps not exactly the same, it is very similar. Too similar to be a coincidence."

"I hope that you are right, Hans. If so, that would be good news."

"Why is that?"

"After the last war, at the Fuhrer's direction, Germany took great pains to learn as much about the Indians as we could. Certainly we will be able to translate what he is saying." Wilhelm shook his head. "How did an Englander learn to speak a Native American language?"

Another memory surfaced for Dietrich. This time, it was of the day that Troy had come to the camp to retrieve the body that Dietrich now knew not to be Jack Moffitt's. He recalled the appearance of the man that had been waiting for Troy and Pettigrew outside of the camp.

Dietrich frowned at Wilhelm. "How do you even know that what Moffitt was saying would even be true? In any language?"

"After he received the first injection, the Englander began answering every question that I put to him. He had the same reaction as everyone does when they are injected with the serum."

"And what is that?"

"As I told you previously, the drug makes the subject incapable of even considering lying in answer to a direct question. It shuts down the part of the mind that would shield or falsify information. It lowers inhibitions and allows the subject to speak freely. This man in particular would hardly shut up."

While Dietrich could believe that Moffitt had been extremely verbose in his answers, again, he couldn't help but to be skeptical of anything that sounded as fanciful as this miracle drug. "Really, Wilhelm, how do you know for certain that this method works?"

"I know because I have taken the drug myself, Hans. It really was the most amazing thing. The questions that I would answer without a blink of an eye! It did not even occur to me to even be embarrassed about what I had said until well after the drug wore off."

Dietrich was still not certain that he believed in the drug's power as much as Wilhelm did, but he nodded anyway.

His continued disbelief must have been evident because Wilhelm gave Dietrich a devilish look. "I would be happy to let you try it, if you like? My only condition is that I get to ask you any questions I want. I do have some in mind."

"No, thank you. I like my secrets exactly as they are. Secret." Despite himself, Dietrich smiled. "Have you had positive verified results with any prisoners?"

"Quite a few. In Germany and in France, I successfully gained a great deal of information with the drug. It is one of the reasons why I was sent here. And then the America colonel that we questioned, he gave all of his information to me under the influence of the drug.

"So when you began questioning Moffitt, you said that he behaved as expected? As the others had?"

"Oh yes! The first questions I asked him were questions about his home, his childhood, his family, his friends, his background, favorite colors, foods, music, and the love of his life." Wilhelm looked thoughtful. "Which oddly enough, he seemed to be genuinely conflicted over if it was a woman, or, his pre-war career."

That did ring true about Moffitt, thought Dietrich. Perhaps Wilhelm was on to something after all.

Wilhelm gave a small smile. "All very simple things. In the next part of the introduction of the drug, we increase the dose and ask more . . . intimate questions. The kind of thing a man would never share, not even with his friends."

"And he answered you?"

"Yes, without hesitation."

Dietrich could only imagine what the more intimate questions might entail. He almost felt embarrassed on Moffitt's behalf. "When did he stop answering you in English?"

"He switched tongues the minute that the questioning became more detailed about the military operations in which he is involved."

Dietrich considered what Wilhelm was telling him. "If what you say is true, then Sergeant Moffitt must have realized that he was unable to stop himself from answering your questions. Instead, he had the presence of mind to choose the language in which he answered?"

"I have never seen that happen before, but yes, I would say that is exactly what occurred. It is an interesting case. He would make a fine research subject." Wilhelm began rewinding the tape on the machine. "Unfortunately, I do not have the kind of time that would be required to poke around inside of his head."

Knowing what he did about Moffitt, Dietrich would guarantee that none of them had that kind of time. He watched Wilhelm as he began to pack up the recording equipment. "What are you going to do now?"

"Radio Berlin and find an expert in American Indian languages. I will have them listen to the tapes and translate the conversation." Wilhelm looked up with satisfaction. "And then? The Reich will be well on the way to winning the war."


	13. A Soft Heart

Four hours later, Wilhelm was angrier and more frustrated than Dietrich had ever seen him.

After multiple calls and conversations with multiple expert resources, Moffitt's information was no closer to being decoded than it had been when Wilhelm had started.

True to Wilhelm's prediction, it had not been a difficult task to find proclaimed experts in American Indian languages. However, while they all agreed that the language that Moffitt was using was of that origin, none of them could fully understand it or translate it to the point where any meaning could be gained from the words.

When Wilhelm's conversation with the final linguist was over, he turned to Dietrich. "Drink? I certainly need one."

Dietrich nodded and watched as Wilhelm poured them both several fingers of whiskey. "What now?" He took the glass from Wilhelm and then took a seat behind his desk.

"I am sure that we are running out of time. The Allies will begin their offensive soon." Wilhelm took a long pull on his drink. "As much as I hate to consider it, I think that we may need to utilize more traditional methods to gain our information."

Dietrich lit a cigarette. "I think that you may find that just as difficult, Wilhelm."

"Oh, I would not say that," Wilhelm casually waved Dietrich's concerns away. "Kauffmann is quite the expert in gaining information by traditional methods." Wilhelm suddenly frowned. "If you ask me, he rather enjoys his work. A bit too much perhaps."

Hardly surprising, Dietrich thought, considering what he knew about most of the Gestapo. "You will have a hard nut to crack there. I would not be surprised if Moffitt dies at Kauffmann's hands before he shares anything of use with him."

Wilhelm pointed to Dietrich's packet of cigarettes and then stuck out his hand. "Please?"

Dietrich was happy to oblige the request, but could not resist needling Wilhelm. "What would the Fuhrer say?" He handed over his lighter.

"That I am a failure and a God damned disappointment to the Reich?" Wilhelm shrugged and lit his cigarette. He let out something between an exhalation and a sigh. "Never mind the smoking."

"Well, I do support anyone's efforts to find an effective and humane way to gain information that would allow us to beat the Allies all the way back to their homelands." Dietrich watched the smoke from Wilhelm's cigarette dissipate. "Even if this attempt failed."

"Up until this point, I really have had such wonderful success with my methods, Hans!" Wilhelm closed his eyes and shook his head. "And now? Now this."

"It is a pity that you had the bad luck to choose such a difficult and uncooperative subject."

"Amen to that." Wilhelm lifted his glass in acknowledgement to the truth that Dietrich spoke.

"If anyone can understand the difficulty that the man presents, it would be me." Dietrich thought about all the times that Moffitt had made his life hell. "He and his comrades have been devilling me for quite some time now. He has always been a particular challenge."

"Yes, well perhaps you should leverage your hard gained knowledge of him to convince Sergeant Moffitt to cooperate." Wilhelm suddenly looked as though he had a revelation. "Do you believe that you could do that?"

"No." The word was out of his mouth before he even had consciously thought it. To Dietrich, the idea that he could convince Moffitt to do anything was ludicrous. Honestly, he doubted how much success even Troy had in convincing the man to do anything which he did not want to do.

Wilhelm got up and stretched, coming to lean over the desk. "Perhaps you should at least try? Talk to him? After all, what do we have to lose? And we have everything to gain. It would especially be in Moffitt's best interest," he entreated.

Dietrich looked up sharply at Wilhelm, suddenly suspicious. "What would make you think that I am in the least concerned with Sergeant Moffitt's best interest?"

"Because you are a decent man? As I have told you, I have seen Kauffmann's work." Wilhelm barely suppressed a shudder. "Believe me when I say that it is not pretty."

"Fine. I will talk to Moffitt."

Dietrich still doubted that it would do any good. But as Wilhelm had said, it would be in everyone's best interest if the man would cooperate. Certainly, there would be no harm in trying. At the worst, the man would throw a few witty or indignant comments Dietrich's way and they would be done. Moffitt's fate would be sealed and Dietrich could feel the satisfaction of knowing that he had at least attempted to save the man from what promised to be a very unpleasant fate.

"Thank you," Wilhelm said. "I hope that you can talk some sense into him."

"We shall see." Dietrich didn't bother to hide that he felt less than hopeful at his chance of success.

"If you cannot persuade the man to cooperate, do you mind if we continue to question him? We are running out of time. I should hate to waste the night."

"You may question him, yes," Dietrich agreed. That request seemed harmless enough in itself, but he felt that he needed to establish boundaries. "However, I would ask that you oversee Kauffmann's interactions with Moffitt to ensure that it does not go beyond questioning. Do I have your word on that, Wilhelm, both as an officer and a gentleman?"

Wilhelm nodded. "As I told you earlier, I do not torture people and I have little stomach for others doing it."

"That must make your attachment to the Gestapo and Kauffmann rather difficult then."

"Sometimes," Wilhelm admitted. "I suppose we all endure with things that we do not like about our roles in the war effort. I am sure that you do so every day, Hans. I know that your life in the field is not easy. How could it be?"

While that was true, Dietrich felt that he had been asked to endure more over the past few days than he ever had in combat. At least in the field, the lines were drawn clearly. Motivations and alliances were easily determined. He could not say the same for his current situation.

Dietrich looked Wilhelm in the eye. "Before we go any farther in this together. I want you to tell me to why you did not share the identity of your prisoner with me from the beginning. You went to great lengths to keep that secret from me."

Dietrich had been expecting an apology from Wilhelm, an admission that he had gone too far, that he was sorry that he had betrayed their friendship and Dietrich's trust in order to carry out the orders of his Gestapo masters. He was shocked when received nothing of the sort.

"I kept the truth from you in order to ensure that my mission was not compromised," Wilhelm said. There was no contrition, no regret in his voice. Instead, his statement was as flat as his eyes.

"You believed that telling me the truth would have compromised your mission?" Dietrich felt as though Wilhelm had punched him in the gut. "You do not trust me after all of these years?"

"I trust you, Hans. Absolutely." Wilhelm inclined his head, a vague smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I also trust that I know you. Perhaps, better than you know yourself."

Dietrich found himself at a total loss. "And that means what exactly?" he asked, finally.

"It means, that despite your well-earned reputation as a battle hardened soldier, I know that you have a soft heart." Wilhelm tapped his own chest.

"Soft heart?" Dietrich scoffed. It was not something of which he had ever been accused.

However, he supposed that it was better than being accused of collusion with the Rat Patrol which is what he had suspected had driven Wilhelm's need for deception. Though, Dietrich asked himself, was it better to be labeled as weak versus as a traitor? Honestly, he was not sure which he preferred.

Wilhelm sighed. "You could not willingly bear to cause someone pain, if you had any way to avoid it. You always have been, and always will be, a decent and honorable man."

"I do not understand how one thing has anything to do with the other," Dietrich said, his voice as stiff as his posture.

Wilhelm came to sit across from Dietrich and leaned across the desk. "As I told you, Bader gave me excellent advice. The same advice that you would have given me. He told me that Moffitt's team would come looking for him, and that they would stop at nothing to find him. Would you not agree with that?"

Dietrich nodded. Of course, he agreed. He had given that advice to Bader when he had first arrived at his command. He had given it to many other people, both before and after, he had given it Bader. But, in the end, Dietrich had given it to very few who had actually taken it. And for those who had not listened to Dietrich's advice, well, Bader and Wilhelm had already outlived most all of them.

"Hans, when that man's commander had come looking for him, could you have looked him the eye and told him that Moffitt was dead if you had known that it was not true?" Wilhelm gave Dietrich a searching look. "Could you really have inflicted that upon him? I do not think so."

Dietrich narrowed his mouth into a thin line. "I would not have betrayed you or your objective."

"I think that you would have, even if not intentionally." Wilhelm inclined his head at Dietrich. "But at any rate, I could hardly take the chance, could I? It was a difficult decision to make, I assure you. But in the end, I felt that it was what I owed you."

"Owed me? You owed me what?"

"Well, just think of all of the years that you had to be strong for me because I was not. I was happy to return the favor by being strong for both of us in this situation. Ironic, no?"

Dietrich realized that he had unconsciously balled his hands into fists of anger. It took every ounce of his self-control not to come across the desk at Wilhelm. It was not lost on Dietrich, that at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to beat the man that he had spent years protecting. With supreme effort, he forced himself to resist the urge.

It was not lost on him that his own "soft heart" was what was sparing Wilhelm the thrashing that he deserved. He wondered if Wilhelm could have seen the irony in that.

Taking in a deep breath and then letting it out, Dietrich tried to calm himself. He was not sure that he was having much success. Finally, the black that had tinged the edges of his field of vision began to recede.

Wilhelm was smiling and shaking his head, obviously oblivious to Dietrich's internal struggle. "If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that you are more upset because I put you into a position to cause Moffitt's comrades needless pain and grief than at the fact that I withheld information from you."

When Dietrich did not respond, Wilhelm went to pour himself another drink. "Think about that, and then tell me if I am wrong," he said over his shoulder.

Dietrich opened his mouth. He wanted very much to tell Wilhelm that he was wrong. However, the words would not come. Dietrich knew that what Wilhelm had said was at least, on some level, true.

"You say nothing, because you know without a doubt that I am correct." Wilhelm took a sip of his drink and then pointed his finger at Dietrich. "Instead of being angry with me, you should be thanking me for sparing you, Hans."

Wilhelm felt like he had done him a favor by lying to him? Dietrich was incredulous. "Sparing me?" he said slowly, measuring each word. "From what, pray tell Wilhelm, have you spared me?"

"Your conscience can be clear that you did not intentionally deceive them. Yes, you gave them awful news, but that was only because you believed it to be true."

Dietrich recalled Troy's reaction to the news, and then also that of Pettigrew. It was likely that he would always remember that moment. It was also very likely that everyone who had fought with Moffitt was still mourning their loss. And then, thought Dietrich, there was Moffitt's family. By now they would have received the news of the death of their son.

Who had spared any of them?

"Perhaps you did spare me that," Dietrich said finally. "However, I will not thank you for lying to me, Wilhelm, no matter what your motivations." Despite his anger, to his Dietrich's own ears, he just sounded tired. The surrealism of the situation in which he had found himself was exhausting him.

"I am sorry, Hans," Wilhelm said finally. He looked away. "If I had it to do again, perhaps I would have chosen to do things differently."

Dietrich doubted that Wilhelm was sorry in the least. Nor did he doubt what choice Wilhelm would have made if he had to do everything again.

"I do have another question for you, Wilhelm," Dietrich said. "And I would appreciate an answer."

There was a knock at Dietrich's door. Irritated at the interruption, Dietrich decided to ignore it. Whatever Wagner wanted would have to wait.

Wilhelm looked up. "Yes, Hans? What is your question?"

The knock came again, more loudly and with more urgency.

"What the hell is it, Wagner?" Dietrich yelled, his voice sharp.

"Herr Hauptmann? I am very sorry to disturb you," Wagner called, voice full of regret and muffled by the door. "But Kriminalkomissar Freitag has a very urgent phone call from Berlin."

Wilhelm looked to Dietrich. "I will need take that. My superiors are not in a very understanding mood at the moment. Refusing their call would not be wise, either from a career or even a well-being perspective."

Dietrich did not argue. He would get the rest of the answers that he desired from Wilhelm. If not at that moment, then he would have them later.

"Perhaps they found someone that can translate the information that Sergeant Moffitt provided?" Wilhelm mused.

"Let us hope." Dietrich got up and grabbed his cover. "You may take the call from my office. I will tell Wagner to transfer it."

"Thank you. Where are you going?"

"I am going to see Sergeant Moffitt. To see if I can persuade him to be a reasonable man."

"Excellent. Good luck with that."

Dietrich sighed. "I will need it."


	14. No Easy Path

"And to what do we owe the pleasure, Herr Hauptmann? Doktor?"

"Kriminalkomissar Freitag has asked that I speak with the prisoner," Dietrich told Kauffmann.

Kauffmann looked vaguely interested. "Did he?"

"He did."

Kauffmann looked at Hoffman with curiosity. "And why is he with you?'

"I am the camp doktor. Your prisoner is in my camp. Ergo, the man that you have in that room is my patient. I would like to see my patient." Hoffman looked at Kauffmann with contempt.

"How can I argue with that logic?" Kauffmann reached for his keys and then stopped. "You know, I do appreciate your interest in the welfare of the prisoner, Herr Doktor."

"Do you?" Hoffman asked suspiciously. He obviously did not believe Kauffmann.

Dietrich did not believe Kauffmann, either. He also did not trust the man. He waited for Kauffmann's response.

"Of course," Kauffmann said with a smile. "I am happy to allow you to examine him. Please do what you need to ensure his continued health."

Dietrich and Hoffman looked at each other in surprise.

"Thank you?" Hoffman said, obviously waiting for the catch.

"Certainly! After all, healthy subjects last longer and talk more. And they scream more loudly."

Dietrich found the glint in Kauffmann's eyes terrifying. This, Dietrich thought, was personification of the evil to which Wilhelm had aligned himself.

God help Wilhelm. God help Moffitt. God help all of them.

"You Gestapo are all barbarians." Hoffman shook his head in disgust. "But I find you particularly reprehensible, Kriminalinspektor Kauffmann."

"I will take that as a compliment." Kauffmann met Hoffman's judgement with yet another twisted smile. "Enjoy your visit with Sergeant Moffitt, gentlemen. It may well be your last. Heil Hitler!"

Kauffman opened the door to the room and allowed both Dietrich and Hoffman to enter.

The door was closed and locked behind them.

Moffitt got up from the bed and came towards them. Dietrich instinctively stepped in front of Hoffman, uncertain how Moffitt was going to react.

"Captain, good afternoon," Moffitt said, his voice cordial. "This is the last place that I would have expected to find you. However, I have heard you are the Kommandant here now?"

"That is correct. Though, it is a temporary assignment," Dietrich answered. "You and Troy are not rid of me just yet."

"I should certainly hope not. The war just wouldn't be the same without you." Moffitt smiled.

Hoffman looked at Dietrich, obviously surprised at the familiarity that exchange had indicated. "You know this man, Hauptmann Dietrich?"

"I do." Dietrich sighed. "Better than anyone would hope to know their enemy."

"Little vacation of sorts from the battlefield? There are worse things, I suppose." Moffitt considered for a moment. "Though, I would think that being stuck here would be like hell on earth for you, Captain. Especially since I know that Bader is commanding your unit in your absence."

Dietrich could not help but to agree with Moffitt, even if only silently. The whole experience had been nothing short of miserable and Dietrich had more than a sneaking suspicion it was turning him into an alcoholic.

"Well, if it's any consolation, your men seemed fine when I last saw them. Bader in particular seems to be doing well. After all, he captured me. Really, that's saying something, isn't it?"

"And he was lucky enough to survive that unscathed. Which is more than I can say for you." Dietrich nodded towards Hoffman. "This is Doktor Hoffman, Sergeant Moffitt. I believe that you met him when you arrived here?"

"I did." Moffitt went to extend his hand, and then looking down at the heavy bandages, stopped. Instead, he raised it in greeting. "Hello again, Doctor."

"Doktor Hoffman, allow me to present your patient, Sergeant Moffitt."

"Pleased to meet you, Sergeant. Again. Though, it is nice to have your name this time, and a face to put with it," Hoffman said.

Moffitt gave Hoffman a small but very polite bow.

"Sergeant, would you allow Doktor Hoffman to examine your wounds?" Dietrich asked.

"Why not? I hear my back looks particularly awful. Not exceedingly painful, though." Mofiftt came closer and held out his arms to Hoffman. "My arms and hands hurt the worse of all of it."

Hoffman nodded. "I am not surprised. I believe I told you that would be the case when I examined you upon your arrival, did I not?"

"So you did." Moffitt watched as Hoffman unwrapped the dressings. He made a face when the dark leathery dermis was exposed. When he attempted to flex his fingers, deep cracks in the dead skin exposed the raw red beneath. "What a mess, eh?"

Hoffman shook his head. "You are very lucky, young man. Despite everything, you seem to be healing well. This looks, and likely feels, much worse than it is."

Dietrich had been watching them, his back against the door, and arms crossed over his chest. "Sergeant, have you been receiving medical treatment from the Gestapo officer who is questioning you?"

Moffitt nodded. "Yes, I have. Freitag has been looking after me. He's fairly gentle, actually. Particularly for a Gestapo officer."

"All that is needed here is an application of ointment and fresh dressings." Hoffman said, as he continued to examine Moffitt's arms. He opened his bag and began to remove what he needed. "Your pain is merely being caused by the skin healing. The damaged skin tightens and cracks before it sloughs off. Burns should be kept moist, you know. It will prevent the discomfort."

Moffitt allowed Hoffman to slather his hands and forearms with ointment and then re-wrap them. "Feels better already, thank you."

"I am glad." Hoffman, finished with Moffitt's arms, began to examine the wounds on his face.

Dietrich squinted, but aside from a few minor burns near the hairline and a bruise that covered the right side from the jaw up to cheekbone, Moffitt's face looked relatively unscathed. Unavoidably, Dietrich made the comparison between the handsome and whole countenance of the Englander before him to the charred visage of the body that he had found in the back of the truck.

"Captain?" Moffitt was looking at Dietrich. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Is everything all right?"

"Oh, yes, everything is fine, Sergeant. I was just thinking of something," Dietrich answered.

"Must not have been something very pleasant," Moffitt said, as perceptive as usual. Suddenly, he let out a yelp of pain. "Speaking of not very pleasant . . . What are you doing, Herr Doktor? Are you actually trying to peel the skin from my back?" Moffitt turned his head to glare at Hoffman.

"It may very well come to that," Hoffman answered, grimly.

From his position, Dietrich watched Hoffman's face. It was obvious he had not liked what he had seen when he had removed the dressings.

"This is what happens when a neurologist treats a severe burn. And when a patient does not heed a doktor's advice." Hoffman tutted to himself and then turned his attention again to Moffitt's back. "Stop fidgeting!" he ordered Moffitt.

Dietrich could not help but to grin as Hoffman suddenly rapped Moffitt on the back of the head. The look of surprise on Moffitt's face had been priceless.

"When I had initially examined you, did I not tell you to avoid putting any pressure on your back, Sergeant?" Hoffman asked.

"Yes, sir. You did indeed," Moffitt answered, his eyes straight ahead and his body very still.

Hoffman's frown deepened. "And yet, it is obvious that you did not listen to me?"

"I had every intention of doing exactly as you had said, Herr Doktor." Moffitt made a noise of regret. "But after spending all night sitting up 'talking' with Kriminalkomissar Freitag, I was so exhausted I believe that I passed out flat on my back shortly after he had left me."

"Well, the damage is done, I am afraid. And," Hoffman peered closely at the skin around Moffitt's eyes, pulling it tight and then letting it go, "you are dehydrated."

"I do feel a bit parched, now that you mention it. But as we're in the desert, I really didn't think much of it."

Finally, Hoffman put his hand on Moffitt's forehead, feeling the temperature of his skin. "You are also warmer than you should be."

"I had noticed that too, but being in the desert . . . Well, you know."

"What I know is that you have a very smart mouth, young man. I also know that I would like to administer you a stronger antibiotic. I fear that your wounds are becoming infected." Hoffman turned his attention to the IV bag that was hanging from a stand beside of the bed. The bag was only a quarter empty and the line was dangling loosely. Hoffman raised his eyebrows. "I suppose, Sergeant, this just fell out of your arm?"

Moffitt looked away. "No, Herr Doktor. I removed the needle when Freitag left," he confessed. "I didn't know what was in it. I preferred not to continue intravenously ingesting whatever cocktail he was feeding me."

"I understand. But I will need to reinsert the IV. You need the fluid and the antibiotics in the solution. You will have to trust me, even if you do not trust Freitag."

"I completely trust you and your diagnosis, sir."

Hoffman stripped off his gloves and grimaced. "My diagnosis is that you are an awful patient, Sergeant."

"Would you believe that's not the first time I've heard that?" Moffitt gave the doktor one of his disarming crooked grins.

Hoffman did not look charmed. "I would absolutely believe it."

"Well, Herr Doktor?" Dietrich asked. "How is our guest?"

"As well as he deserves to be." Hoffman looked at Dietrich. "I did not expect to need to perform such a treatment. I will go gather what I need. You will stay with him, Herr Hauptmann, to ensure that he does no additional damage to himself?"

Dietrich nodded. "Of course."

Hoffman knocked on the door and waited for Kauffman to open it.

Dietrich watched as Hoffman left the room. When the door was closed, he turned back to Moffitt. "Do you want to live, Sergeant?"

"Staying alive is always one of my main objectives." Moffitt sat down gingerly on the bed, making small adjustments in his posture until he appeared to find a comfortable position. He looked up at Dietrich. "I do hope that you don't have any plans otherwise, Captain?"

"It is not my plans you need to be worried about." Pointedly, Dietrich looked behind him at the door.

"I knew the Gestapo was being far too nice about this entire thing." Moffitt sighed. "Completely out of character for them, isn't it? Not surprising that it is going to come to an end."

"It does not have to come an unpleasant end, Sergeant. Kriminalkomissar Freitag wishes to treat you humanely. As do I."

"And Kauffmann? I am sure that he has no such desire. He's been itching to get at me since the moment that we met."

"I am sure, Sergeant," Dietrich said, "that you have done nothing to antagonize him?"

"I am sure that I have no idea what you're talking about, Herr Hauptman." Moffitt managed to school his face into the picture of innocence.

"Oh, but I am sure that you do." Dietrich came closer to Moffitt and looked down at him. He studied the bruise that covered the right side of Moffitt's face and the swelling that was apparent under it. "Did Kauffman do that to you?"

It seemed to take Moffitt a moment to understand to what Dietrich was referring. Finally, he put a hand towards his cheek. "Oh. I had very nearly forgotten all about that. Dentist, actually."

Dietrich looked at the man, puzzled.

"It's a long story. But it may have put me off of bread forever," said Moffitt, looking glum at whatever memory that he was recalling. "Speaking of food, I'm starving, actually. And I could murder a cup of tea."

"We will feed you after the doctor has completed your treatment." Dietrich arched an amused eyebrow. "I will ensure that we omit the bread from your tray."

"That would be wonderful. Thank you. And the tea?" Moffitt asked hopefully.

"I am sure that we have somewhere." Considering everything else that the former Kommandant had stockpiled, Dietrich would not be surprised if they had actual English tea.

"I very much appreciate it. I haven't eaten much for a few days. Haven't felt up to it, really. And the Kriminalkomissar has been far too interested in asking me questions about other things to inquire about my appetite."

"The Kriminalkomissar has good reason to be so interested. He believes that you have knowledge of a large Allied offensive that is about to take place."

"Does he now?" Moffitt looked at Dietrich. "Do you, Captain? Believe that?"

"I do. And I also believe that you did indeed tell him what he wanted to know."

"I did. Though, I am afraid that he didn't understand a word of it. But Freitag, bless him, kept trying. You have to applaud the man's fortitude."

"There is a lot at stake here for Germany, Sergeant."

"There's a lot here at stake for all of us," Moffitt responded. "Tenacity is something you lot seem to all have in spades, isn't it, Captain? If not, you would have given up trying to best Troy a long time ago." Moffitt smirked at Dietrich.

Dietrich suddenly sympathized with Kauffmann. He also very much wanted to punch Moffitt in the face at that moment. Taking a deep breath, Dietrich resisted the urge. "You are very proud of your cleverness, aren't you, Sergeant?"

"Clever? You think I'm being clever?"

"Yes, I do. Too much so for your own good."

"Why Captain! I do believe that may be quite nicest thing that you've ever said to me. Normally when we meet, you're only all too focused on criticizing my German."

Dietrich started to pace. The man really had no idea what situation into which he had placed himself.

Or, maybe he did.

At any rate, Dietrich felt the need to explain it to him. "You chose to answer all of Freitag's questions in a language that you knew that he could not understand."

"I did. That is true," Moffitt admitted.

"It was an American Indian dialect that you were using, no?" Dietrich relished the expression of surprise on Moffitt's face. It was a rare thing to see.

"Who's clever now?" Moffitt gave Dietrich an open look of admiration. "I don't suppose that you were able to find out which one?"

"No. Why don't you tell me?"

"It's an Iroquois dialect." Moffitt seemed more than shocked that the words had left his mouth.

Dietrich was more than surprised that Moffitt had not only given him an answer, but one that was apparently truthful. "Well, that is uncharacteristically helpful of you, Sergeant."

"I swear! That damn drug!" Moffitt closed his eyes in frustration. "There must be enough of it still in my system for me to still be in a sharing mood. Quite the opportunity for you, Captain."

Dietrich raised his eyebrows. "Is it?"

"I am sure that there is something that you'd like to know about Troy, there has to be. Favorite song? Shoe size?"

Dietrich shook his head. "Despite our famialirty, I do not have the overwhelming need to know my enemy, Sergeant."

"No?" Moffitt thought for a moment and then suddenly looked as though he had had a revelation. "Oh I know! Perhaps why Troy wears that silly hat? You can't tell me that you've never wondered about that. Now would be the time to ask."

As tempting as it was to find out exactly why Troy insisted upon wearing that ridiculous hat, Dietrich shook his head again and smiled. "No thank you. I prefer that my enemies maintain an air of mystery about them. I will let Sergeant Troy keep his secrets."

Moffitt inclined his head. "Suit yourself. That was likely a once in a lifetime offer, you know."

"An Iroquois dialect." Dietrich thought about what Moffitt had told him. "It would make sense then why we cannot seem to find anyone in all of Germany that can understand it."

"To my knowledge there are very few that can still speak it, anywhere in the world. I would wager that none of them are in Germany," Moffitt agreed.

"Of course. That would have been far too easy, would it not have been?" And, Dietrich completed silently, it would not be like Moffitt to make things easy on them. Or, upon himself.

"It's quite a predicament in which you've found yourself, Captain. All of that information and you can't do a damn thing with it." Moffitt gave Dietrich a smug look of satisfaction. "Must be incredibly frustrating for you."

"I do not suppose that you would consider sharing the information with me? In English? Or even in German. If you would like to practice the language? I would be happy to help you with that," Dietrich asked, not able to resist throwing the now customary insult in Moffitt's very self-satisfied face.

"Not hardly." Moffitt looked past Dietrich, at the door. "You know, speaking of Troy, I keep waiting for him to come bursting through that door to rescue me. Rather disappointing that he hasn't yet." He sounded almost wistful. "I suppose he's spoiled me."

Oh, but Troy had come for Moffitt, thought Dietrich, and to the best of Troy's knowledge, he had left with him. He would not be back for what he did not know still existed.

"You are going to be waiting a long time for that, Sergeant. And unfortunately, your time is rather limited," Dietrich told Moffitt.

Moffitt looked at Dietrich with interest. "You must be aware of something about my future that I am not, Captain. What do our friends from the Gestapo have planned for me?"

"Well, as you are choosing not to cooperate with Freitag, I am afraid that Kauffman will eventually have his turn. I do not believe that it will be a pleasant experience for you."

"I doubt that it will be. The man is twisted. I have already had the unfortunate opportunity to observe that first hand," Moffitt muttered, his expression darkening. "His truly evil nature knows no bounds."

Dietrich waited for Moffitt to elaborate, wondering what he had seen, but nothing more came.

"Kauffmann apparently has quite the success rate for convincing people to share information. Sergeant Moffitt, why not tell me what you know? Or, at the very least, tell the Kriminalkomissar," Dietrich insisted urgently. "You will talk, I am sure, before Kauffmann is done with you. Why not just take the easiest path to the same end?"

"Why not, Captain?" Moffitt asked, sounding surprised. "You know it as well as me."

"Know what, Sergeant?"

"In this situation . . ." Moffitt looked at Dietrich with the expression of a man who was resigned to his fate. "There is no such thing as the easy path, is there?"

Dietrich threw up his hands in frustration. "You will die at Kauffmann's hands Sergeant, if you do not take action to avoid that end!"

"Yes, I am sure that you are quite right." Moffitt considered for a moment. He looked at Dietrich, his odd light eyes searching Dietrich's face intently. "You said that you were offering me the easiest way out, Captain. Did you mean that?"

"I did. Will you take that offer?"

"It depends on what you're offering, doesn't it now?"

"What?" Dietrich asked, confused. He felt that he could not have been clearer.

"Considering everything, and as I'm quite determined not to talk, I'd say that putting a bullet in my head is the most merciful thing that you could do for me. Wouldn't you?"

Dietrich could not argue that, but nor could he agree to do it.

Moffitt's gaze latched onto Dietrich's. "Would you be willing to do that for me, Captain?"

It may have been the easiest path for Moffitt, but it would have been the hardest one for Dietrich.

"I cannot," Dietrich said, averting his eyes.

"And I really don't want you to, either. But it does prove my point rather nicely, doesn't it?" Moffitt shrugged. "See, I told you. No easy path. Not for any of us."


	15. An Impromptu Gathering

Dietrich ate his breakfast at his desk, working his way through the never diminishing mountain of paperwork that he still needed to complete before the Red Cross visited the camp.

When his office door opened, Dietrich had assumed that it was Wagner with his coffee. Not bothering to look up, he waved his hand towards the corner of his desk. "Please put it there, Wagner."

"Hauptmann Dietrich?"

Dietrich suddenly looked up. When he saw who his visitor was, he rose from his seat. "Oh, I am sorry Herr Doktor. I thought that you were Wagner. Please have a seat. May I offer you some breakfast? Coffee?"

"Yes, please, to the coffee. No to breakfast, but thank you." Doktor Hoffman looked at the mess that was strewn across Dietrich's desk. "Preparing for the visit of our Red Cross friends?"

Dietrich sighed. "Yes, they create a lot of work, do they not?"

"They do indeed. However, you have to admire their mission. An army is only as good as how they treat their prisoners." Hoffman picked up one of the forms and absently started to read it. "Really, that is why I came to see you, Dietrich."

"Do you have some advice that you could give to ensure that the visit is a success?"

"I do." Hoffman nodded. "I am here to advise you that while I know that you are friends with Kriminalkomissar Freitag, you must ask him to take his prisoner and leave. Kauffmann cannot continue what he is doing to that man here."

Dietrich put his pen down and stared at Hoffman.

"And whatever it is that he is doing to him, I assure you that it must be incredibly painful," Hoffman continued.

Dietrich knew that he only had himself to blame for the current situation. Swearing under his breath at Wilhelm, and then at himself, he asked himself if he had really been so naïve as to trust Wilhelm's word. Dietrich promised himself that it would be the last time he made that mistake.

"Kauffmann has been tormenting that man nonstop. I heard it all through the evening, all through the night, and then again, starting early this morning." Hoffman shook his head. "And it sickens me. Perhaps that is another reason why I came to your office, Dietrich. I can no longer stand to be in my own."

Wagner appeared with the coffee. "I made two cups as I saw that you had company, Herr Hauptmann." He put the tray down on Dietrich's desk and then served Doktor Hoffman and Dietrich.

"Thank you, Wagner." Dietrich took a sip of the steaming hot brew and savored the taste. There would definitely be some things that he would miss about his current post when he went back to the field. "This is particularly good this morning."

"Thank you, sir." Wagner looked at Dietrich and then at Hoffman. "Hauptmann Dietrich, there is something that I need to talk to you about. I am not sure that it can wait."

"Please tell me now if you are comfortable sharing it also with the Doktor," Dietrich said.

"I am comfortable doing so. Actually, I think that you and Doktor Hoffman may have been discussing the same thing." Wagner gestured at the other chair. "May I, sir?"

"Certainly. Is this about the Gestapo and their treatment of their prisoner?"

"Yes, Herr Hauptmann. It is. It seems that the Gestapo is beginning to be rather . . . enthusiastic."

Hoffman snorted. "Enthusiastic. What a word for it!"

"Go on," Dietrich told Wagner.

"While the infirmary is fairly isolated within the camp, the guards tell me that the prisoners have heard noises that are disturbing them." Wagner looked at Hoffman and then at Dietrich. "We do not, nor have we ever, mistreated the men who are interred here, Hauptmann. We cannot start now."

"I could not agree more!" Hoffman said enthusiastically. "See, Hauptmann Dietrich? You must evict the Gestapo. As soon as possible."

"You do need to do so, Herr Hauptmann," Wager urged. "Particularly with the upcoming visit. When the prisoners are upset, they complain. And trust me, you do not want that." Wagner gestured to the paper work that covered Dietrich's desk. "If you think that this is bad, wait and see what happens when the Red Cross is not happy."

"He is right, Dietrich." Hoffman shook his head. "None of us want that."

Dietrich considered what he had been told. "I will talk to Kriminalkomissar Freitag this morning."

"Talk to me about what?" Wilhelm came into the office. He stopped short when he saw Hoffman and Wagner. "No one told me that you were having a party, Hans."

Dietrich glared at the newcomer. "It was an impromptu gathering, Wilhelm."

"I see. Well, then I will try not to let my feelings be hurt by the fact that I was not invited." Wilhelm looked around the room. "Do you have a wireless in here, Hans? Based on what I have heard, I think that we should likely be listening to it."

Dietrich looked at Wagner. A wireless, surprisingly, was the one thing that he had not seen in his office or anywhere in the camp.

"Certainly we do. Let me retrieve it." Wagner disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he was carrying a radio. He worked for a moment and it finally crackled into life.

"What is going on, Wilhelm?" Dietrich asked.

Wilhelm put his finger to his lips. "Shhh. Listen."

Dietrich was shocked at what he heard. "My God! Did this begin this morning?"

Wilhelm nodded. "We knew that it was just a matter of time."

Based on what was being reported things were not going well for the Afrika Corps, thought Dietrich. He could only imagine what it was actually like in the field if the radio was reporting what they were in their heavily edited account of things. The Wehrmacht's reality had to be ten times worse.

"Apparently, the Allies have started their offensive. And it is just as horrible as we feared that it would be." Wilhelm hit Dietrich's desk in frustration. "I should have been able to prevent this."

"Has Kauffmann had any success?" Dietrich traded glances with Hoffman. "I hear that he has been . . . working."

"What do you think?" Wilhelm looked disgusted. "Of course not. In fact, he is thinking of stopping soon if he does not gain something from the man."

Dietrich was surprised that Kauffmann would give up so easily, though he was not unhappy to hear it. "I need to ask you to have Kauffmann stop now, Wilhelm. He cannot continue to," Dietrich paused as he struggled for a word, "question the man here."

"I understand. We will move the prisoner to the nearest Gestapo headquarters at our first opportunity. Kauffmann maintains that he does not have the tools here that he needs in order to be effective, anyway."

"Tools that he needs to be effective?" Hoffman looked horrified. "I do not even want to know what that means."

"Trust me when I say that you do not, Herr Doktor," said Wilhelm, his expression dark. "If only you had been able to convince Sergeant Moffitt to cooperate with me, Hans. All of this," he gestured towards the radio where the newscaster was giving yet another grim update, "could have been avoided."

"You might as well say 'if the man had not been Moffitt', Wilhelm," Dietrich countered.

Dietrich thought about what Moffitt must be enduring in order to help ensure that the Allies continued their assault with the same success that they were apparently having already.

Yes, thought Dietrich, there was no easy path.

Not for Moffitt, and not for any of them.


	16. Moving On

After what had seemed like a lifetime of waiting, Operation Sandstorm had finally begun.

As much as Troy disliked getting shot at, all day, every day, it had been a welcome thing for him and the others to have something to do besides mourn the loss of Moffitt.

Though, going out into the field with the replacement was reminder enough that Moffitt was dead. It wasn't, thought Troy, that Victor was bad at the job. Troy could admit that, other than Moffitt, the guy may have been the best fourth that they had ever had.

Sure, the guy had his negatives, like the fact that he rarely said more than two words at a time and that he wasn't really interested in being chummy with any of them. But, on the plus side, Victor was built like a brick house. Troy suspected that one John's tanks couldn't have taken him down without a fight. He also didn't seem to get too caught up in questioning Troy's orders, second guessing their plans, or in offering helpful suggestions.

Victor, when Troy thought about it, couldn't have been less like Moffitt if he had been trying.

That was probably for the best. As it was, it was still unsettling for Troy to look over at the other Jeep, expecting to see Moffitt sitting there and then instead, see a stranger in his place. Troy could only imagine how Tully must feel. But with the bullets, tank shells, and grenades flying all around them, there wasn't much time for any of them to dwell on anything but how they were going to accomplish their missions and stay alive.

Sandstorm was a major operation and Troy had to admit that it was well planned. Though, as much time as it had taken to get it off the ground, it should have been. The first days of fighting had been hard on the Allies, but it had been devastating to the Germans. The hot desert air was thick with smoke from the German tanks burning and the barren landscape was littered with dead bodies clothed in Wehrmacht uniforms. The noise of heavy artillery and explosions couldn't quite cover the wailing of the forsaken, those that weren't quite dead, but who would be before the day was out.

For those left alive on the battlefield, the landscape had taken on a decidedly hellish quality. There was no point in the Germans praying to any god or to their Fuhrer, to save them. Even with Sandstorm only just beginning, it was already too late.

And then, there were the prisoners. So many of them that the US Army hadn't quite figured out what to do with them all. Quite a few had been interred, and even more were arriving, at the camp where Troy and his men had spent the weeks that had led up to Operation Sandstorm.

Troy had heard the rumor that the Rat Patrol, along with the rest of the army, were all going to be moving on soon. Like homicidal gypsies, they would be following the war to set up camp closer to the front lines. John and his boys had already gone. Troy hoped that he would see them again, but he knew better than to count on it.

The idea of moving on made Troy feel melancholy. Their current camp had been a home to them for almost a month. That kind of stability was a luxury that the Rat Patrol normally didn't have. It also had been nice to experience the camaraderie of a larger group, particularly when their already small group was one less than what it had been.

Troy let his eyes wander to Moffitt's trunk. He had packed it full with all of Moffitt's things two nights after they had returned from Dietrich's camp. Now that they were moving on, Troy supposed that he would have to go see the quartermaster to figure out how they were going to get it back to Moffitt's family.

Troy, Hitch, and Tully had each taken something of Moffitt's as a memento before everything had been stored away. It had been a long standing agreement, if anything happened, that each of the men left should have something from the man who had gone. Tully, Hitch, and Troy had spent quite a bit of time trying to guess what Moffitt would have wanted each of them to have.

Among Moffitt's belongings, Troy had found an unopened bottle of very fine Irish whiskey. There had been no discussion. They had immediately agreed that Moffitt would have wanted them all to have that.

It had started with each of them toasting Moffitt. Then, they had talked about the memories that they would share forever. The more that they had drank, the more that they had reminisced. It had ended with an empty bottle and hearts full of emotion.

After that night, the loss of Moffitt had become easier for them all to bear.

The next day, the three of them had buried the body themselves, alone. When the last shovel of sand had covered the grave, they had said their final goodbyes to a man who had come to mean more to them than any of them would have ever expected.

Troy was glad that there was never any question of sending the gruesome remains home to Moffitt's family. Moffitt would remain in the desert that he had loved so much. Troy thought that at least Moffitt's father would understand that. He didn't even want to think about Moffitt's mother, who would probably never understand why the war had been so cruel as to have taken both of her sons.

With the burial of the body complete, the three of them hadn't talked much about Moffitt. Troy supposed that was to be expected. It was like they were each carrying a burden. Instead of lessening it, talking about it would have just made it heavier.

But just because they didn't talk about Moffitt didn't mean that he was ever far from their thoughts.

* * *

Troy looked at the trunk and sighed.

Suddenly very tired, he pulled off his boots. They would be back at it early the next day, and Troy decided to get what sleep he could. Not even bothering to undress, he flopped back on his cot and shut his eyes.

"Hey Sarge?" came a voice from the tent flap.

Troy opened one eye, not even certain that he had actually been asleep. Though, judging from the darkness, he had been, and had been for quite a while.

"I think that he's asleep, Hitch. We should just let him be," Tully said.

"I'm awake. Just resting my eyes," Troy muttered, forcing himself to sit up and squint at the two boys. "What is it? Everything all right?"

Hitch and Tully came into the tent.

"We've gotten word that we're moving camp tomorrow to get closer to where the fighting is." Hitch looked at Tully. "We thought that we might go visit Moffitt one last time. We wanted to see if you wanted to come."

Troy thought about it. It was unlikely with the direction that the war was taking that any of them would ever be back this way again. He nodded. "Sure, let me get my boots on."

Outside in the cool night air, Troy lit a cigarette. The camp was hardly calm. True to what he had heard, Troy could see the preparations that were being taken for them to decamp. Looking at the progress, it looked like it was going to be quick work, particularly as they were leaving a lot of the infrastructure behind to house the influx of German prisoners.

There were even more prisoners, Troy saw, than what he had thought. He wondered if between the dead, the wounded, and the captured the Germans were even going to have enough guys left by the end of the week to continue fighting the war. Troy supposed that was the idea, after all.

The three of them walked by a small group of Germans that had been pulled away from the others. Troy looked questioningly at Hitch.

"German officers, I think," Hitch supplied.

Knowing that Dietrich likely would not be amongst the group, Troy didn't even spare them a look. Troy thought about Dietrich who, if he was lucky, was still mostly out of harm's way in the POW camp. Whatever the reason as to why Dietrich had found himself there, it couldn't have happened at a better time for the guy.

"Sergeant Troy!"

Troy stopped walking. He looked from Hitch to Tully. "Is that . . . ?" he asked them, not trusting his own ears.

Tully nodded. "Bader."

They all three turned around.

In the middle of the small group of German officers, someone was waving to them. That someone was so short that only the tips of his fingers could be seen for those who were taller surrounding him.

"Definitely Bader," said Hitch. "Should we go say hi?"

Troy shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

Bader pushed himself out of the midst of his fellow Wehrmacht officers. He was smiling, apparently happy to see even semi-friendly faces. "Sergeant Troy! Privates Pettigrew and Hitchcock! It is very nice to see you."

Troy couldn't help but to smile back. Bader might be a lot of things, or not be a lot of things as Dietrich often lamented, but he was a decent kid. "You, too, Leutnant Bader. It's been a while."

"Yes, it has been. When the war is slow, we do not see each other much, no?" Bader smiled again. "Not that it is a bad thing."

"No," agreed Troy, because seeing Bader usually meant seeing Dietrich, too. "Not a bad thing." Troy looked at the boy and noticed that his arm was in a makeshift sling. "You okay?"

Bader looked down. "Oh, yes, it is nothing really. I dislocated it from the joint when I was thrown from a half-track. One of your medics was kind enough to replace it for me."

Troy nodded. "That's good." It was not lost on him that the guards were watching their exchange with more than a passing curiosity. "Well, Bader, it was nice to see you. Good luck, but we have to be going."

"Oh yes, of course." Bader smiled at Troy. "If I do not see you again, I have enjoyed knowing you all."

"Us too. Take care." Troy looked at Hitch and Tully. They nodded at Bader.

"Oh, and Sergeant Troy, before you all go . . ."

"Yes?"

"I wanted to tell you that I am sorry that you lost Sergeant Moffitt."

Troy stopped still. He turned to face Bader again. "How did you know that? Did Dietrich tell you?"

Bader shook his head. "No, I was there when it happened."

Troy, Tully, and Hitch moved closer to Bader. Troy kept moving and got as close to Bader as he dared without getting beaten back by the guards.

"You were there?" Troy asked Bader.

"Yes, I was there. Actually, I was responsible."

"What?" Troy knew that he had to have misheard Bader. "What did you say?"

Bader puffed himself up and beamed. "It is hard to believe that I achieved it, is it not?" Bader looked at the three of them. "While I am sure that you must miss Sergeant Moffitt very much, the Wehrmacht will not. If the war ends for me now, I will leave it happily, knowing that the desert is rid of one of its greatest menaces because of me."

Troy wasn't quick enough to catch Tully before he jumped on Bader. He would have been quick enough to stop Hitch from attacking the boy but Troy chose not to do so. In Troy's opinion, Bader deserved whatever he got. It took everything that he had not to get in there with them.

The guards took a much more active interest in Bader's welfare than Troy had. They moved to intervene, but not before several of the other German officers had joined in the fight in order to aid Bader.

By the time that the guards had gotten everyone sorted out, it had become quite the brawl. At its height, Troy finally had felt compelled to get in the mix to help Tully and Hitch. His boys were pretty outnumbered by the Germans, after all. Not that it had ever stopped them before.

"What the hell is going on here?" yelled the head MP, Jenkins. He had come running when he had heard the commotion. When no one seemed to be interested in listening to him, he raised his gun over his head and fired. With that, he got everyone's attention.

"The war is over for you guys. No more fighting." Jenkins told the Germans. "Stand down!"

Then, Jenkins looked to his guards. "Get it together, men, or you're all not only going to be guarding these Krauts, you're going to be cleaning their latrines, too. What happened here? Anyone?" Jenkins searched the group for an answer. "Well? I'm waiting."

One of the guards pointed to Troy, Tully, and Hitch. "Troy's guys jumped the little guy." He nodded towards Tully. "Pettigrew started it."

"Is that true?" Jenkins asked the group in general.

Bader who had been trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose with his shirt tail, looked up and nodded.

Jenkins looked at Tully. "Can't you pick on someone your own size, Pettigrew? And the kid's only even got one good arm. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What the hell did he do to deserve that?"

Troy caught Jenkins' arm. "Ted, he just told us that he was the one that killed Moffitt. You can't blame Tully. Go easy on him and Hitch, will you?"

Jenkins looked at Bader, obviously taking in his small stature and young age. He shook his head in disbelief. "This is the guy that killed Moffitt? Must've been having a hell of a lucky day."

"Yeah, or Moffitt was having a hell of an unlucky one," muttered Hitch as he nursed his split lip.

"You killed Jack Moffitt?" Jenkins asked Bader. "Really?"

"Killed him?" Bader stammered. He looked shocked. "No, I only captured him. Along with the rest of the crew of his tank."

Troy who had taken a good punch to the side of his head, now thought that he might fall over. He shook his head hard, trying to get rid of the ringing in his ears. "What did you say, Bader?"

"I did not kill Sergeant Moffitt, Sergeant Troy. He was very much alive the last time that I saw him." Bader suddenly looked stricken. "God in heaven, is Sergeant Moffitt dead? Is that true? What happened?"

Jenkins looked at Troy. "I heard that Moffitt was dead, Sam."

Troy looked at Jenkins. "Yeah, I'm pretty damn sure that he is dead. And we ought to know, we buried him." He turned his attention back to Bader. "When was the last time that you saw Moffitt, Bader?"

"After we had retrieved them from the tank. There was Sergeant Moffitt and five other men. We processed them as prisoners of war. I performed their interrogation." Bader paused to swipe at his nose, all the while looking very confused.

"Go on," Troy encouraged.

"Sergeant Troy, you must believe me when I say that Sergeant Moffitt was alive when last I saw him. He had been injured, but it was nothing life threatening. Though . . ." Bader suddenly stopped. He frowned. "Oh."

"What, Bader? What aren't you telling us?" Troy growled.

"The Gestapo seemed very interested in him. They separated him from the other prisoners for additional questioning." Bader suddenly looked at Troy with a stricken expression. "Did the Gestapo kill Sergeant Moffitt?"

Troy opened his mouth to speak but shut it. He didn't know who had killed Moffitt. He was starting to wonder if anyone actually had.

He looked back at Tully and Hitch. They looked as dumbfound as Troy felt.

Jenkins shook his head. "What a mess. Jesus, Sam." He shook his head and looked back at Bader. Blood was still pouring from the boy's nose. "And speaking of mess, Tyler, can you take the lieutenant there to the doc again? I think that Pettigrew probably broke his nose."

Tully hung his head. "I'm real sorry, Lieutenant Bader. I got carried away."

Bader nodded. "I understand. It is all right. It was just a misunderstanding, no? For what it is worth, I do hope that Sergeant Moffitt is all right."

"Thanks, Lieutenant. That's mighty understanding of you," Tully said.

Troy watched as two guards took Bader to take him to the medical tent, knowing that he would probably never see him again. Bader might not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer but he'd always been a nice guy. Troy hoped that wherever he ended up that he would be okay.

Bader suddenly stopped and turned. He resisted the efforts of his guards to pull him forward. "Sergeant Troy?" he called. "Would you do me a favor?"

"Yes, Bader?" Troy answered. "What is it?"

"When you see Hauptmann Dietrich again, will you tell him that I am all right?"

Troy nodded. "Sure, Bader. We'll tell him if we have the chance."

"I am sure that you will have the opportunity before the war ends." Satisfied, Bader allowed himself to be led away.

"Don't worry, Pettigrew," said Jenkins. "I'm not going to hold this against you. But I am going to ask you guys to get a move on. I think that everyone's had enough for one night." Jenkins put his hand on Troy's arm. "Hey, Sam, I was real sorry to hear about Moffitt. He was a good guy. I hope with all my heart that you find out what really happened to him."

"Thanks, Ted." Troy clapped Jenkins on the shoulder. "I appreciate it."

Troy motioned to Tully and Hitch to start walking. They fell in step beside of him.

"At least Bader didn't kill Moffitt," said Troy.

"Does it matter?" asked Hitch. "Doesn't change anything. Moffitt's still dead, isn't he? And who knows, even if Bader didn't, the Gestapo probably did. Those sadistic bastards."

Troy though back to what Bader had told them and said nothing. Then he thought about what Dietrich had said to him and John about Moffitt's death. That events of that afternoon would be etched forever into Troy's memory. He clearly recalled without a doubt that Dietrich had said that Moffitt had died saving John's boys from a burning tank.

Now, Troy doubted the truth of that. Either Bader had been lying to them, and Troy had no idea why he would, or Dietrich had purposefully deceived him.

If he was a betting man, and he was, Troy knew on which possibility that he'd lay down double or nothing. God damned dirty Kraut, Troy thought. Wait until he got his hands on the guy. There would be no mercy.

Then, despite his anger, Troy remembered how Dietrich had looked when he had told him about Moffitt. The Captain had looked as stricken as Troy had felt. Troy wouldn't put much past their favorite Wehrmacht Hauptmann, but he somehow doubted that Dietrich was a good enough of an actor to pull that off.

Troy considered that maybe Dietrich thought that he was telling the truth. Maybe it was the Gestapo that had done the lying. Now that, Troy would absolutely believe.

Doubt sprouted and grew, about any and all of it. Troy didn't know what to think any more. It was making his head throb. A simple man, he liked it when things were cut and dry. What he had thought was the relatively simple matter of a man's death, now was turning into something of a mystery.

Troy didn't like it.

And in an effort to once again turn everything into a clear cut matter, Troy started to consider exactly how he was going to solve the question of Moffitt's death once and for all.

Finally, Troy told himself that he was crazy.

There was no question. Moffitt was dead. He had seen it with his own eyes.

Hitch was probably right. Bader had been lying to save his own ass from the wrath of what was left of the Rat Patrol.

Or, Dietrich had been pulling the wool over his eyes.

Or, they both thought that they were telling Troy the truth. And someone else was manipulating all of them.

If only, there was a way to determine if the man that they had buried was actually Moffitt, thought Troy, then at least he would know that. The rest of it wasn't quite as important.

Troy lit a cigarette and wondered exactly how he was going to go about proving, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Moffitt was actually dead.

It was Tully that interrupted Troy's internal dialogue.

"What now, Sarge?" Tully asked.

An idea formed. Troy looked at both of the boys. "I think that we need to do what we set out to do before I let us get side tracked."

"Yeah," agreed Hitch. "I think so, too."

Tully nodded.

"Good," Troy said. He started walking.

"Sarge?" called Hitch. "You're going the wrong way."

"Nope, just making a side stop first," Troy called back. "Shake it, will ya?"


	17. Digging Around

Troy leaned on his shovel.

He looked at Tully and Hitch. The light of the lanterns eerily distorted both of their features and cast long shadows behind them.

Yep, thought Troy, everything looked just about as creepy as it should for what they were about to do.

As if on cue, somewhere out in the desert, a jackal howled, breaking the quiet of the moonless night.

"You boys ready to get started?" Troy asked them.

"Um, Sarge," said Hitchcock tentatively. "Are you sure that this is such a good idea?"

The look on Hitch's face all too obviously conveyed the boy's opinion that Troy had finally gone off the deep end.

"Yeah, we just buried him a little bit ago. Doesn't seem right to go digging him up so soon," Tully said.

Troy ignored them, and the little voice inside of his head that was repeatedly telling him that he was insane. He plunged his shovel into the soft sand.

"Start digging," Troy ordered them.

To Troy, it seemed like it took less time to dig Moffitt up than it had to bury him. Soon enough, they had the body out of the ground.

Hitch panting, looked at Troy. "Now what?"

Troy answered Hitch like he had asked the most obvious question in the world. "We're taking Moffitt to visit the dentist."

* * *

Dr. Howard, the camp dentist, had gone three shades paler than normal and his mouth was hanging open.

The guy, thought Troy, didn't have such great teeth for a dentist. "Will you help us, Dr. Howard?" Troy asked.

The dentist looked from Troy, to Tully, and then to Hitch. He was obviously taking in their dirty, sweaty, and generally disheveled appearances. Howard's gaze finally came to rest on Tully, who was still carrying three shovels.

"Sergeant Troy, I'm not sure that I understand what you want me to do?" Dr. Howard finally stammered.

"It's simple. I just want you to look at his teeth," Troy answered, evenly. "And if you could do it now, we certainly would appreciate it."

"But this man," Dr. Howard swallowed as he looked the corpse that Troy had dumped into his examination chair, "is dead."

"Yes, he is," Troy agreed.

"Why in the world would you want me to examine the teeth of a dead man?"

"Because you examined his teeth when he was alive. This is, or we think that it could be, Sergeant Moffitt. But we're not sure. And we want to be very sure. Do you remember working on him?"

Dr. Howard thought about it. "Englishman?" he asked finally, the light of memory finally glimmering in his eyes.

"Yep," said Hitch. "Probably don't get too many of them, do you?"

"No, I don't." Dr. Howard looked at Troy. "This man, Moffitt, had a tooth extracted a few weeks ago, correct? Upper right molar, with roots like a mighty oak tree, if my memory serves. It was not an easy procedure, I felt for him the entire time. And afterwards."

"That's him," confirmed Troy. "Looked like a lopsided chipmunk when you were done with him."

"And this . . . "Dr. Howard looked down at the body again. "This is him?"

"Well, we thought so, but now we're not too sure."

"I still don't understand," said Dr. Howard. "Tell me again why you want me to examine the teeth of this corpse?"

"Because while there's not much else left of this guy, it looks to me like he's still got all of his teeth."

"Oh!" Dr. Howard's face lit up, obviously finally understanding. "Dental identification. Of course! Why didn't you just say so? My men and I are no stranger to that request. Unfortunately." He stopped and looked at the state of the corpse. Dr. Howard made a face. "Though I will say that it's more common that we're asked to do it before the body is buried. And beginning to decompose."

"Well," said Troy, "better late than never, right?"

"I suppose that I see your point," said Dr. Howard, all the while giving Troy a look that very plainly said that while he understood, he didn't like what he was being asked to do at all.

Troy gave the dentist a wide smile, showing all of his own nearly perfect teeth. "So you'll help us out, Doc?"

* * *

"Troy! Just what the hell have you been up to?" Boggs asked, tightening his robe around himself.

"Oh, just a little digging around, sir," Troy answered.

"Digging around? Very funny. Troy, did you or did you not, dig up a corpse tonight and take it to the camp dentist?"

"Yes, sir. I did."

"What the hell is wrong with you? Have you gone mad, Sergeant?" Boggs shook his head in disbelief.

"Maybe, sir," said Troy, looking at his boots. He looked up at Boggs. "Maybe I was already there."

"Well, you wouldn't be the first man to go insane out here. But I doubt that you have. I am sure that you have a very good reason for what you did, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, at least I like to think so."

"Please enlighten me, Troy. What on earth possessed you to dig up Sergeant Moffitt's body? I know that you are capable of things that most normal men aren't, but grave robbing?"

"As you said, I had a good reason, sir."

"Well, tell me, then. Quickly. Before the MPs come to lock you up until a psychiatrist can take a crack at you. And God help the psychiatrist." Boggs crossed his arms and tapped his foot. "I'm waiting, Troy."

"Well, it's a long story, sir. The end of it, though, is that the man that we buried isn't Moffitt. Dr. Howard confirmed it based on his dental records." Troy couldn't help but to grin. "We think that Moffitt's still alive out there somewhere."

Boggs didn't nearly look as happy about the news as Troy had expected.

"Well, that's something isn't it, Troy?" Boggs sank into his desk chair. "So who did you bury?"

"I don't know, sir. Dr. Howard is going to try and figure it out. We left the body with him."

"Howard was pleased about that, I am sure. I'll be hearing about it, I guarantee you." Boggs sighed. "I think that I felt better when I thought that Moffitt was dead."

"What?" Troy openly gaped at Boggs. He had expected their commander to be as ecstatic as he was with their discovery. "I don't understand, sir?"

"I'm very glad to hear that you think that Sergeant Moffitt is still alive, Troy. Really I am. Very much so. But . . ."

"But what?"

Boggs rubbed his forehead. "That Rat Patrol is a pivotal part of Operation Sandstorm, Troy, you know that. We briefed you and Moffitt extensively on every part of the operation, not just your own piece of it."

Boggs didn't have to remind Troy of the mind numbing hours that he and Moffitt had endured in the briefing tent. "Go on, sir?"

"As a result, Sergeant Moffitt knows exactly how we are carrying out the initiative. If he is still alive, there is a very good chance that someone will try very hard to get that information out of him." Boggs leaned back in his chair and looked up at Troy. "Have a seat, Sam."

Troy sat down. Bader had said that the Gestapo had been very interested in Moffitt. And in all of the excitement of the realization that Moffitt might not be dead, Troy hadn't really considered what that could mean. Either to Operation Sandstorm, or to Moffitt.

"About a month ago, when Operation Sandstorm was originally slated to start, we had one of our colonels captured. This man was one of the primary strategists who worked on the plans for the entire thing." Boggs lit a cigar and then studied its glowing end. "The Gestapo interrogated that man. Rather thoroughly."

"And he told them what they wanted to know?" Troy was not all that surprised. The Gestapo could be very persuasive. Troy unfortunately had had more than one opportunity to witness that first hand.

"Yes, and then some. Including the names of the major players in our game. That would include you and Moffitt. So the Gestapo is likely fully aware that you both have valuable information."

"I understand." Troy looked at Boggs with certainty. "But Moffitt won't break like that, sir."

"Perhaps not under traditional torture, but we now know that the Gestapo is using a new method. Drugs. A truth serum that they're recently developed that is more effective than anything used before."

"What?" Troy didn't believe it. Truth serums were things from comic books or movies. Surely the Nazis didn't actually have one that worked.

"I was skeptical as well. But when we got the Colonel back from them, he didn't have a mark on him. Except for a hole in his arm where an IV had been." Boggs shook his head. "But yet, he told us that he had willingly told the Gestapo everything that they wanted to know. He said he was unable to stop himself from talking."

Troy looked at Boggs, still not knowing whether to believe what he was hearing or not.

"While the damage was already done by the time that we managed to extract him, at least we knew that we had to scrap all of our original plans for Operation Sandstorm and go back to the drawing board."

Troy thought about that. It certainly explained why they had done so much waiting before they started fighting. Thanks to the Nazis, the Allied High Command had had to start their plans over again from scratch.

"So, what I am saying, Sergeant is that there is a very real, very grave danger that Sergeant Moffitt could compromise this entire operation. I will have to tell the High Command that we believe him to still be alive. And that he is very likely being interrogated."

"Understood, sir."

Boggs looked thoughtful. "I am also going to have to ask you to go out and find him."

"Yes, sir!" Boggs didn't have to ask him twice. Troy had already been making plans.

"If you can't bring him back, you will need to make sure that he is dead. Either way, we can't have him talking." Boggs frowned. "And that extends to you, too, Troy. Come back alive or make yourself dead. Do you understand?"

It was hardly the first time that Troy had ever gotten those orders. However, the reality of hearing them was always brutally sobering. "Yes, sir," Troy answered without hesitation. "I understand."

Obviously having decided that their conversation was over, Boggs stood up. Troy followed his lead.

"You have your orders, Sergeant. At first light, take your men and go find Sergeant Moffitt."

"Yes, sir." Troy saluted Boggs.

Boggs returned the salute. "Oh, and Troy?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Being killed once during a war is more than any man should have to endure. Never mind getting killed twice. Do what you can to get Moffitt back here in one piece, will you?"

"Absolutely everything in my power, Major."

Boggs smiled. "Then I'm sure that I will see you both soon."


	18. Tougher than Most

"Hans, I came to tell you that I am leaving." Wilhelm looked around. "It looks as though you are as well?"

Dietrich nodded, placing the few of his items that remained into his bag. "Yes, apparently, I am now needed in the field more than I am here."

"Not surprising to hear that. Especially considering how things are going for us out there."

"My second is missing in action, presumed dead. His name appeared on the list this morning." Dietrich sighed. "As did, unfortunately, the names of most of the men from my unit." Dietrich turned to Wilhelm. "You are going back to Gestapo headquarters? With Kauffmann and Moffitt?"

"No. Kauffmann will go to Gestapo Headquarters without me. He will be leaving as soon as the car and driver arrive."

"And you?"

Wilhelm took a cigarette from the packet that was lying on Dietrich's desk and lit it. "I will instead be going to visit another prisoner of war camp. It seems we have managed to capture at least a few Allied officers during the battles. We think that they may know something. The Gestapo leadership is willing to let me take another crack at them with my methods."

"Yes?"

"Apparently I have been forgiven for my failure by Berlin." Wilhelm took a long drag from his cigarette and looked thoughtful. "They were very understanding when they finally realized who my subject was."

"Yes, when you mention that the Rat Patrol, all of them or even one of them, is involved it suddenly puts everything in a different light," Dietrich agreed. After all, he knew that better than anyone. If not, he would have lost his command, and likely his life, long ago.

"At least there are only three members of the Rat Patrol are left to trouble you now," Wilhelm said.

"What?" Dietrich wondered if Moffitt had perished as a result of Kauffmann's enthusiasm to extract the truth from him. It would explain why there had not been any additional complaints lodged about the Gestapo torturing the man.

"Well, technically, I suppose that there are still four. But considering that Kauffmann will be taking Moffitt to the nearest Gestapo outpost this morning for further questioning, it is unlikely that he will survive long after that."

Dietrich knew what Wilhelm said to be true. Moffitt's chance of survival was growing slimmer and slimmer with every day that he remained in the Gestapo's custody. "And how is Sergeant Moffitt? Have you seen him?"

"Yes, I checked in on him this morning. I can confirm that he is still alive, if not well." Sliding into Dietrich's chair, Wilhelm put his feet up on the desk. "I could not stomach spending the night watching Kauffmann do . . . Well, what he it was that he was doing with him."

Dietrich narrowed his eyes against his building anger. "And what exactly was that?"

"Do not ask questions to which you do not want to know the answer, Hans. And when I say that you do not wish to know, I mean it. I wish to God that I did not."

Dietrich closed his eyes against the brutalities that he could only imagine. "I thought we had agreed that Kauffmann had finished with Moffitt until he could be moved to Gestapo Headquarters?"

"That was the intent. However, there seems to be something about Sergeant Moffitt that Kauffmann seems to find," Wilhelm paused as if looking for the right word, "irresistible."

Wilhelm looked away from Dietrich, his gaze wandering to the sideboard. Despite Dietrich's best efforts, it still remained nearly fully stocked with liquor. "Is it too early to start drinking, do you think?" Wilhelm asked.

"Yes, I believe that it is." Dietrich would have been lying if he said that he had not felt the urge himself. However, he was trying to leave his burgeoning alcoholism behind. Along with the camp and the memories of everything that had happened there since Wilhelm's arrival.

"Well, that is a pity." Wilhelm put his head back and stared at the ceiling. "As I told you, Kauffmann is terrifyingly good at what he does, Hans. The man knows exactly how to cause the maximum amount of pain. Physical, mental, or otherwise."

Of course Kauffmann did, thought Dietrich. Was it not for what the Gestapo so famously excelled?

"Moffitt is definitely tougher than most. You were right about that. Any other man would have broken by now." A faint smile crossed Wilhelm's face. "I know that it should not, but somehow, Kauffmann's lack of success makes me feel better about my own failure."

"Moffitt has still yet to tell Kauffmann anything of use?"

"Of course he has not. It is as you predicted, Hans."

"I am not surprised. He is very stubborn."

"I would say so. You know, when Kauffmann first started in on him, Moffitt did not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Any reaction. That went on for quite a while, until Kauffmann finally got so frustrated that he momentarily lost his objective. And his finesse." Wilhelm frowned. "I do believe that Kauffmann would have killed him then and there if I had not stopped him. I am lucky that I outrank him."

"Yes, as was Moffitt," agreed Dietrich.

Or, at least Moffitt had been lucky, Dietrich amended. However, with Wilhelm leaving him with alone Kauffmann and with no hope of rescue from Troy, Moffitt's immense store of luck might have finally run out.

As if he was reading Dietrich's mind, Wilhelm shook his head. "Oh, I do not know if I would call him lucky. There comes a point when his death so early on would have been a mercy."

Based on what Hoffman had told him even the day before, and what Wilhelm was telling him at that moment, Dietrich wondered if things had not already reached that point for Moffitt. He then thought about what Moffitt had asked of him before they had last parted. Dietrich considered again the value of the request. Perhaps it would have indeed been the easiest path for all of them. Ultimately, it seemed that it would have led them all to the same place.

"I thought that I had made it very clear from the beginning that Sergeant Moffitt was not to be tortured while in my camp?" Dietrich asked Wilhelm.

"Yes, you were very clear." Wilhelm seemed to be very intently studying his own hands. Dietrich wondered if Wilhelm was trying to determine how much blood was on them, even if only by association.

"Obviously then, you gave my orders very little consideration." Dietrich said.

Wilhelm shrugged. "I appreciated your request, Hans, but in the end, I made the decision to follow the orders that I received from Berlin."

"Your orders?"

"Yes, since I had failed and considering our situation, I was ordered by my superiors to allow Kauffmann to utilize whatever means necessary to gain the information from Sergeant Moffitt."

"You were ordered," Dietrich repeated flatly, thinking of how many times he had heard that excuse from men who had done horrific things.

"Yes. I was."

"May I remind you, that you were a guest in my camp?" Dietrich was nearly shaking with the effort to control his rage. "What of the rules of the Geneva Convention? Or those of the Wehrmacht? Or, what about your word to me? Did any of those things factor into your decision at all about whether or not to follow your orders?"

"We are a long way from Geneva. And I am an officer of the Gestapo, not the Wehrmacht. So, as you have probably already guessed, I gave little value to those things when making my decision to follow my own orders."

And even though he had not actually voiced the words, Wilhelm may as well have said that Dietrich had little value to him as well.

"But your words certainly did not go unheeded," Wilhelm continued, hastily, seeing the look on Dietrich's face. "I knew that you were most concerned about the noise that the prisoner was making. I was very certain to ensure that Kauffmann take all the necessary precautions to ensure that Moffitt would not be heard."

"I see," was all that Dietrich could manage to say.

Wilhelm blinked. "I would think that you would, Hans. Everything that I have done is for the good of Germany and the Reich. I would be very disappointed if you did not, if you could not, find it in yourself to support the fact that I followed the orders that I was given."

That, Dietrich decided, was the final straw. He would throw Wilhelm out of the camp gates if necessary. "Wilhelm, you need to go."

"Yes, of course, you are right. I must be going. I have a lot of work to do and a short time in which to do it." Seemingly oblivious to how close he was to receiving full brunt of Dietrich's wrath, Wilhelm looked at his watch. He calmly stubbed out his cigarette and then got to his feet.

There was one final thing that Dietrich needed to confirm, not only for his own sake, but in order to fulfill a promise. It would not be prudent to miss the opportunity just because he could not control his rage. With a supreme effort, Dietrich again managed to momentarily calm himself.

"Wilhelm," Dietrich said as evenly as he could, "actually, would you be able to spare me just a moment more?"

"Gladly. A few minutes will not matter either way." Wilhelm retrieved another cigarette and then settled back into his chair. "What is it, Hans?"

"I was going to ask you a question the other afternoon, when Wagner interrupted us. Do you recall that?"

Wilhelm nodded. "Yes, I do. What was it? I am happy to answer it."

Dietrich took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "If the body that Troy took was not Moffitt's, whose was it?"

"Oh, that. Well, there was a man captured with Moffitt that looked much like him. Same build, general features, height."

"Tom Adams," Dietrich said, thinking back to his conversation with Iggy and his men. "And that man died from the injuries that he sustained after he was captured. So, you decided to use his body to deceive everyone into thinking Moffitt was dead."

Dietrich nodded, satisfied with his own deduction. It made sense to him that Wilhelm would see that opportunity and coldly take it. And while burning the already dead body beyond recognition at first realization seemed repugnant, it was the only way to have ensured that Troy would accept another man's body as Moffitt's.

Dietrich had to again grudgingly admire Wilhelm's cleverness.

Wilhelm seemed to be suddenly and intently studying the glowing end of his cigarette. "Well, no. Not exactly."

"Not exactly what?" Dietrich frowned, not comprehending.

"The man was actually mostly fine when we captured him. However, we needed a body, so . . ."

"Oh my God." Dietrich dropped into the first available chair, truly shocked speechless at the confirmation of his worst suspicions.

Finally, Dietrich found his voice. "Are you telling me that you killed that man? For just this purpose?" he whispered, horrified at Wilhelm's confession.

"I did not kill him," Wilhelm answered quickly. "Kauffmann killed the man and burned the body."

Dietrich had already had known that Kauffmann was a monster, but hearing that he had killed a defenseless man in cold blood to further such a plan chilled Dietrich to the core. "You could not stop him?" Dietrich asked, appalled.

"Why would I want to stop Kauffmann?" Wilhelm looked confused. "It was at my order."

"Wilhelm, no . . . Surely that cannot be true?" But even as he asked, Dietrich knew that it was the truth, even if he could barely bring himself to believe it.

And with that, Dietrich had no choice but to fully and finally acknowledge that Kauffmann was not the only Gestapo created monster present in his camp.

"It had to be done," Wilhelm insisted. "The future of the Reich was at stake. Being squeamish about the decision to take the life of one man in order to save the lives of thousands of others was not an option. As a soldier, I would think that you would understand that."

"Understand?" Dietrich's shock receded as his anger at Wilhelm flared again, tenfold. "It had to be done? For God's sake! There is a war on. You could not find a dead body somewhere, Wilhelm?"

"I hardly had time to hunt the desert and pick through the day's corpses to find one to suit my needs, Hans! The perfect solution was staring me in the face. Clean, easy, quick. I would have been a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity which I was presented!"

It pained Dietrich that Wilhelm was looking at him like he was the one that was insane. "What has happened to you, Wilhelm?" Dietrich asked, though he already knew the answer.

"What has happened to me?" Wilhelm suddenly got to his feet, a fervent fire lighting his eyes. "I gained a cause and grew strong, Hans. I have dedicated myself to upholding and furthering the ideals of the Reich. Like you, I am proudly fighting the war for Germany!"

Dietrich was absolute certain that Wilhelm's war was not his war.

Walking to the door and opening it, Dietrich jerked his head stiffly at Wilhelm. "You will be going now, Wilhelm."

Wilhelm, obviously getting the hint, got to his feet and made his way over to Dietrich. "Yes, I should be going, you are right."

Dietrich looked straight ahead, not acknowledging the hand that Wilhelm held out him.

Wilhelm awkwardly withdrew it. "Thank you for your hospitality, Hans. It was wonderful to see you."

Still, Dietrich said nothing.

"And I am sorry about everything. Particularly for deceiving you." Wilhelm bowed his head in a show, and Dietrich was certain that it was only a show, of contrition. "I do hope that you understand why I have done everything that I have done. I also hope that one day when you can see that, you can also find it in yourself to forgive me."

While Dietrich knew that it was unwise to hold a grudge with the way that war was going, he wanted to tell Wilhelm that that day would not be any day soon. But, Dietrich did not and could not, utter a word. However, he soon realized that Wilhelm was indeed waiting for him to say something before he took his leave.

"Goodbye, Wilhelm." Dietrich said.

"Goodbye, Hans." Wilhelm raised his hand in the party salute. "Heil Hitler!"

Thankfully, Wilhelm did not wait for Dietrich to return the gesture.

* * *

Dietrich watched Wilhelm get into the car and drive away.

Once again, he couldn't help but to be astonished at the transformation of the boy that he known so well into the man that he did not know at all. The change in Wilhelm's physique was indeed extraordinary. But the changes in his character were astonishing.

It was if, marveled Dietrich, gone along with the fragile body was everything that had made Wilhelm a decent man.

Dietrich knew that the change in its entirety was the result of Wilhelm's involvement with Hitler and Nazis. As such, he could recognize that Wilhelm was as much of a casualty of the madman's war as any other man that had been, or would be, lost to it.

Just how many more losses would have to be endured before the war ended, Dietrich wondered?

He slowly turned to the bust of Hitler, as if to ask it his question. With all his hurt, disillusionment, and rage channeled into a one single sudden sharp movement, Dietrich knocked the hideous thing to the floor. With no small sense of satisfaction, he watched as it shattered into pieces.

At the sound of the crash, Wagner came running into the office. "Herr Hauptmann! Are you all right?"

Dietrich looked down at the mess. He found himself fixated on a larger piece of the rubble. He wondered if it was what remained of an eyebrow, or, of a mustache.

There was no way, decided Dietrich, of knowing for certain.

"Yes, Wagner. I am fine. I am afraid, however, that the Fuhrer has seen better days," Dietrich said, his tone grave.

"I see." Wagner looked at the wreckage and then back at Dietrich. "I do not think that we will be able to repair it, sir."

"No," Dietrich agreed. "There are some things that can never be repaired, are there not, Wagner? We can but accept the damage that has been done and move on."

Wagner looked at Dietrich strangely for a moment and then nodded. "I will get the broom. I will have this cleaned up in no time. Herr Hauptmann."

If only, Dietrich thought, it would be so easy to remove all other evidences of Hitler.


	19. Goodbyes

Dietrich rose to his feet when the three men entered and returned their salutes. "Gentlemen, thank you for meeting with me."

Iggy grinned. "Didn't know that we had a choice, but you're welcome all the same. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit to our humble home, Captain?"

"Well, I am afraid that it is not a social call." Dietrich sat down at the rough-hewed table and motioned for the others to do the same. "I had promised to tell you if I determined what had happened to the two men with whom you were captured. I have information to share with you."

"Uh oh." Iggy looked at the three other men. "That doesn't sound too good. What did you find out, sir?"

"Sergeant Moffitt is alive. However, he is in the possession of the Gestapo."

The four men shared the expression that one would expect to see when someone heard such a thing. It was not lost on Dietrich that everyone seemed to know the Gestapo's brutal reputation. He did not know why he was surprised by that. After all, the Gestapo was working very hard to earn it.

"That's not good," Taylor said, finally. "And what about Adams?"

Feeling the weight of what he was about to tell the men, Dietrich bowed his head. "Private Tom Adams is dead."

When Dietrich looked up, Iggy met his eyes with what appeared to be sincere gratitude. "Well, at least we know now. Thank you, Captain. Delivering bad news is never easy, and we can't tell you how much it means to us that you are delivering it yourself."

Dietrich found himself very much appreciating Iggy's words. "No, it is never easy to share the news of a man's death. But I wanted you to know. Sometimes, the worst thing is not knowing."

"Yes, sir. That's for sure." Iggy looked at three other men. "Poor Adams."

They nodded, solemn and quiet for a moment.

Smith broke the silence. "What happened to Adams, Captain? Do you know how he died?"

Dietrich had been dreading that question. He had decided beforehand that complete honesty would not be the best approach. "There was an accident. Another fire. Private Adams died in it to save another man's life."

"Wow. Well, that sounds like Tom. Always the hero." Iggy smiled. "At least he didn't die for nothing, did he, Captain Dietrich?"

Dietrich did not trust himself enough to voice a lie about that. Instead, he merely nodded.

"Well, I guess that you're real busy, sir." Iggy looked down. "We don't want to trouble you any more than we already have."

Dietrich rose. "It was no trouble." He met Taylor's eyes. "I am leaving very shortly. I have been called back to my unit. I am very sorry I will not see you play baseball."

Taylor broke out into a huge grin, obviously flattered that Dietrich had remembered their conversation. "Me too, Sir. I'll pitch a no hitter, though, just for you, sir."

Dietrich was not certain what that meant, but it sounded like a feat in itself. "That is very nice of you. Thank you."

They saluted him and Dietrich returned the gesture. "Gentlemen, please take care of yourselves."

"You too, sir. You're going to be a lot closer to the action than we are here," Taylor said.

Dietrich inclined his head in acknowledgement of the fact that Taylor could not have spoken truer words.

When Dietrich had reached the doorway of the barracks, Iggy called out to him. "Thanks again, Captain. You're a real okay guy for . . . "

Dietrich waited for the man to say "Kraut."

"An officer." Iggy flashed Dietrich a smile.

Dietrich could not help but to smile back.

* * *

Dietrich made the rest of his rounds to say his goodbyes.

He was genuinely touched by how many of the camp's residents and staff seemed like they were truly going to miss him. And he was genuinely surprised at the fact that he felt the same way about them. While the battlefield did not lend itself to quick attachments during a war, obviously, a quieter environment did.

However, there was one last man that Dietrich had wanted to see before he left.

Dietrich was surprised that there was one of his guards at the door instead of the other Gestapo man that had arrived to accompany Kauffmann and Moffitt to Gestapo headquarters.

"Schmidt, is Kriminalinspektor Kauffmann present?" Dietrich sincerely hoped that the answer would be no.

"No, Herr Hauptmann Dietrich. He said that he needed to report to Berlin." Schmidt answered. "He went to the communications room just a few minutes before you arrived."

Dietrich very nearly gave a sigh of relief at not having to see Kauffmann. Hopefully, he would never have to see the man again. "And the prisoner?"

"He is locked in this room, Herr Hauptmann."

"Very good. I would like to see him."

"Yes, sir." Schmidt took his keys and opened the door, and then moved aside allowing Dietrich access.

Dietrich looked into the room. Despite the bright light of mid-morning, it was dark. The windows were closed and shuttered, obviously to conceal as much as possible the activity which had been taking place there.

After his eyes had adjusted, Dietrich could see Moffitt lying flat out on the bed, eyes closed. His breathing was regular, if shallow, though his body was anything but relaxed. Dietrich knew that Moffitt was only feigning sleep.

"You are not keeping your promise, Sergeant."

"What?" Moffitt managed. His voice was unusually hoarse and raspy, likely from screaming, even if against the gag that had slipped from his mouth and now hung around his neck.

"You are lying on your back. Doktor Hoffman would be very disappointed in you for not following his orders."

"I believe," Moffitt swallowed painfully before he licked his cracked lips, "that my back is likely the least of my worries now."

Dietrich knew him to be right. "I brought you something."

"The easy path?" The question was nearly hopeful, laced with only a hint of the expected mockery.

Dietrich nearly regretted the answer that he had to give. "I am afraid not."

"I expected not." Suddenly, Moffitt's nose twitched and he opened his eyes. "Bloody hell, Captain! Did you bring me tea?"

Dietrich could not help but to smile at the reaction. "Knowing what I do about the English, I thought that you could probably use a cup."

Moving closer, Dietrich placed the mug on the bedside table. Moffitt was struggling to right himself, and then failing. Dietrich went to put a hand under his back to support him, but remembering the man's original injuries, he instead leaned over. He took hold of Moffitt's upper arms and pulled him up as gently as he could.

Even that small action seemed to cause Moffitt severe discomfort, Dietrich was pained to observe. Patiently, he waited for Moffitt to regain his breath. Then, picking up the mug, he placed it into Moffitt's shaking hands. It was not lost on Dietrich that at the very moment that Moffitt took possession of the tea, his grasp became stronger and steadier.

When he was satisfied that the injured man could support the effort of drinking by himself, Dietrich let the mug go.

Moffitt raised it to his mouth, and paused, inhaling the rising steam. Then he took a tentative sip. "Ah." A look of extreme satisfaction crossed his face. "I would say that you are an angel, Captain. But we both know that not to be true."

In spite of himself and the situation, Dietrich laughed. "We do."

"All the same, I appreciate the kindness." Moffitt sighed. "As we both predicted, I'm not getting much of that now."

Dietrich gave Moffitt an appraising look, trying to determine the extent of the damage that Kauffmann had inflicted upon him. Dietrich found what Wilhelm had said to be remarkably accurate. While there were certainly very visible marks of abuse on Moffitt's body, he did not look nearly as awful as Dietrich had been expecting. However, he could not help but to wonder about the extent of the damage that could not be seen.

They sat silently. Moffitt continued to enjoy his tea. Dietrich had one ear cocked to the door, listening for the return of Kauffmann.

"I am returning to my unit," Dietrich said finally. "Well, what is left of it. The Allied operation that you are so intent upon giving your life for is apparently going very well."

"That's good to hear. I would hate to think that I was going through all of this for nothing." Moffitt took another sip of tea.

"Yes," Dietrich said, truthfully. "So would I."

"It is very nice of you to come to say goodbye, Captain. I'm afraid that with the way that things are looking it's highly unlikely that we'll ever see one another again."

Dietrich was about to agree, but something which he could not name stopped him. If he called it a premonition, a prediction, or sentimentality, it mattered little. Whatever it was, he had a feeling that he would indeed see Moffitt again.

Dietrich cleared his throat. "We have had the opportunity, for better or worse, to spend much time together during the war."

"Yes, we have."

"For that reason, I wanted to see you before I left." To Dietrich's ears, it sounded odd. But it was true.

"I am glad that you took the time." Moffitt suddenly quirked his mouth at something.

"What is it?"

"Speaking of spending far too much time together, it's funny that it's you sitting by my bedside this time, versus other way around, isn't it?"

Dietrich thought back to the time when Moffitt's constant care been the only thing that had saved him from dying. "If only we had the time, I would have been happy to attempt to take your mind off of your suffering by playing chess or cards with you, as you did with me."

An unexpectedly dark expression crossed Moffitt's face. "No cards," he muttered. "Never again."

Dietrich found the words odd, but he had long ago stopping trying to understand exactly what Moffitt was saying or thinking. As usual, Dietrich allowed himself to move past the man's eccentricities to the matter at hand. "There is something that I would like to ask you. A favor."

Moffitt's expression cleared. "As you brought me both tea and sympathy, anything."

"I did not bring you any sympathy. You have only yourself to blame for your current situation. Freitag offered you an alternative to this, as did I. You chose not to take it." Dietrich shook his head. "You are as pig headed as Sergeant Troy is!"

"Captain, please! You're spoiling good tea with your self-righteousness." A small smile appeared over the rim of the mug. "And your unappreciated comparisons."

Dietrich very nearly rolled his eyes. "My apologies. After all, I would hate to spoil your tea."

"Quite right. Apology accepted. Now, please go on. What would you like from me?"

"When . . ." Dietrich paused, wondering why instead he had not said "if." "When you see Sergeant Troy again, I would like for you to tell him something for me."

"Yes?" Moffitt looked surprised by the request but more than willing to comply. "What would you like me to tell Troy?"

"I would like for you to relay to him that I believed, at that moment, that what I told him was absolutely true."

"I see."

Dietrich looked into Moffitt's eyes, seeing the bemusement there. Moffitt appeared to be waiting for more. But there was no more. There was nothing else that Dietrich wanted to say. Nothing else would be needed. Though it was obvious that Moffitt had no earthly idea why Dietrich was asking what he was, that was fine with Dietrich. He did not need for the messenger to understand the message. Actually, he far preferred it that way.

Dietrich took the now empty mug and rose from the chair. "And that is all, Sergeant. If you would be so kind to tell Sergeant Troy that for me?"

"Certainly. It would be my honor, Captain. If I am any way able, I will relay your message."

"Thank you. Good luck to you, Sergeant." Dietrich said, wishing that he could shake the man's hand. But even as both of Moffitt's hands were no longer swaddled in bandages, he did not want to take the chance of disturbing the still healing wounds.

Instead, Dietrich lightly touched Moffitt on the shoulder. He was surprised when Moffitt covered his hand with his own.

"And to you, Captain." There was a depth of emotion in Moffitt's usually shuttered eyes. "You are a good man in the midst of a very bad war. I hope that fate allows you the outcome to all of this that you deserve."

Dietrich found himself surprisingly touched. "Thank you. I hope the same for you."

"Oh, I am relatively certain that I am going to get exactly what I deserve." A wry look crossed Moffitt's face. "Forget fate. Kauffmann is likely going to see to that."


	20. The Thin Thread

The other Jeep rolled to a stop beside of his. "This is it," Troy said. "Everyone know the plan?"

Hitch looked beyond them at the faraway gates of the prisoner of war camp where they all hoped that they would find Moffitt alive. "Yeah, it's nothing new is, it?"

Troy shrugged. "Why deviate from the classics, Hitch?"

The plan was simple. They would sneak into the camp, find what they came for, and then leave. Not everything had to be hard. And after all, if they had bested Dietrich with the same approach a dozen times before, then the likelihood was good that it would work again.

As Victor as he had not quite had the education that the others had on the tried and true tactics of the Rat Patrol, Troy paused to check his understanidng. "You good?"

"Good." Victor didn't say anything else.

Not that Troy was surprised by that. He would have thought that it would have been impossible for them to draw a man that said less than Tully did, but it had happened.

"All right, let's do it," Troy said.

* * *

From his prior visit, Troy knew exactly where Dietrich would be.

Dressed in their stolen uniforms, Troy and his team strode through the camp like they owned it. No one bothered to contradict them. They waltzed into the Commandant's building and straight to Dietrich's office.

"Where do you think that you are going?" the man, who Troy recognized from their last visit as Dietrich's adjutant, asked in German. Or at least, that was what Troy had though that the guy had said. Didn't really matter much to Troy.

He turned around and faced the guy squarely. "Wherever I want," Troy answered in English. He watched as Tully came up from behind the lieutenant to grab him a choke hold.

"My God in heaven!" exclaimed the lieutenant. "It is the Rat Patrol!"

Troy grinned at him. "That's right. In color." Troy went to door of the Commandant's office and flung it wide open. He was surprised, not to mention disappointed, that it was empty.

He came back to stand in front of the lieutenant. "Where's Dietrich?" Troy demanded. "I want to have a word with him."

The lieutenant attempted to say something, but it was obvious that Tully's tight hold on him was making him unable to utter anything beyond a series of gasps. Troy gestured to his own throat. "Ease up a little bit, okay, Tully?"

Tully did what he was told, allowing the lieutenant to at least put the tips of his toes on the floor.

"Now what were you going to tell me, Lieutenant?" Troy asked.

"Hauptmann Dietrich is not here. He was called back to the field." The lieutenant swallowed. "I am in charge until a replacement is found for him."

It rang true. Troy knew firsthand what the state of the Wehrmacht currently was. Any able bodied man was going to be on the battlefield, not stuck running a prisoner of war camp.

"I wouldn't look for a replacement to show up any time soon." Troy fixed the guy with his worst stare. "Well, I really wanted to see Dietrich. But since he's gone and you're in charge, I guess we're going to have to make do with you."

The lieutenant's face was scarlet, the aftermath of Tully having very nearly having throttled him. "What do you want from me?"

"Sergeant Jack Moffitt. Is he here?"

"Not any more. He was taken from here this morning."

Troy was starting to get very frustrated very quickly that no one was where he expected them to be. "He was taken from here? What does that mean? Moffitt is alive, right?" Troy thought that it was a good idea to ask. Though God knew, it wasn't like he knew what or who to believe any more.

"Yes, Sergeant Moffitt is alive. For now. The Gestapo took him to one of their field offices for additional questioning."

At least, thought Troy, it seemed like the lieutenant was telling him the truth. It was a refreshing change of pace. "And where is that?"

"I am not certain, but based on what I have overheard, I would expect it to be in the closest town."

Troy looked over at Hitch. "Do you know if there is a Gestapo joint close by?"

Hitch nodded. "Yeah, there is. I did my homework after we heard that those bastards might have Moffitt. I know exactly where it is."

"Good job, Hitch." Troy looked again at the terrified lieutenant. "How long ago did they leave?"

"An hour, not more," the lieutenant said.

"Hitch, how far away is that town?"

Hitch did some quick mental calculations. "I would say that by Jeep, it's probably about three hours away. If we got moving now, and moved fast, we could definitely catch them before they get there."

Troy moved over to where Tully was still holding the lieutenant. He got closer until his face was only inches away from the German's. "We're going to walk out of here, take the truck that we hitched a ride in on, and drive through the gates of the camp. You got any problem with that?"

"No, none at all," the lieutenant stammered, trying to unsuccessfully twist his face away from Troy's.

"Glad to hear it. One last thing before we leave . . ."

"Yes?"

"Tell me something that will convince me not to kill you."

The lieutenant appeared to be thinking hard about what his potentially last words should be.

Troy pulled out his pistol. "Well, I'm waiting."

"I surrender?"

Tully obviously couldn't stop the guffaw that escaped him.

Troy gave Tully a look.

"We don't have time for all of that, Sarge," Tully said. "Prisoners are a pain in the neck."

Wagner made a face. "You are absolutely correct. If anyone would know that, it would be me."

Jesus, thought Troy. How did Dietrich manage? Saddled first with Bader, and then this guy. Troy shook his head. He almost felt sorry for Dietrich. He hoped that the Captain had better luck with getting a decent second the next time around.

Troy took a few steps back and re-holstered his weapon. Hands on his hips, he regarded the Lieutenant. "How about this? Let us take care of what we need to do today, and then if we have time, we'll come back and accept your surrender. Or, I'm sure that the Allied army is going to be rolling through here any day. You can surrender to them. Whatever comes first?"

The lieutenant nodded. "That sounds like an excellent idea."

"Glad that you think so." Troy looked to Hitch. "Tie him up and lock him in Dietrich's office."

"Right, Sarge." Hitch led the unresisting lieutenant into the Commandant's office.

Victor made a noise.

Troy looked at him. "What?"

"Too easy," said Victor, his expression one of extreme disappointment.

Troy wondered what the guy had been hoping for. "Well, enjoy it while you can, Victor. Trust me, it's not always like this."

Victor grunted optimistically.

Troy gave Tully a look of disbelief at Victor's lack of joy over their good fortune. After the run of luck that they had been having, Troy didn't think that anyone should be complaining about something actually going their way.

Judging from Tully's expression, he agreed with Troy.

* * *

As much as Troy hated to continue to disappoint Victor, he hoped that the rest of it wouldn't be that hard either.

The two Jeeps sped along the road to the next town on the lookout for any other vehicle that could be potentially carry the Gestapo and Moffitt.

Finally, Troy noticed a cloud of dust on the horizon in front of them. He turned to Hitch. "That looks like a car, or a small truck, right?"

Hitch nodded. "Yeah, it's not a half-track, or tanks, or anything like that. Not kicking up enough dust to be anything but a car. I'd say that our luck is definitely holding."

Troy squinted at the map. They were about a half hour outside of the town. Based on how fast they had been travelling and how fast the car was be going, he would lay good money on the fact that he had found Moffitt and his Gestapo escorts.

"Fast as you can go, Hitch," Troy ordered. "You know what to do when we catch up to them."

Hitch gave his gum a good chomp. "You got, it Sarge!" He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and the Jeep shot forward, quickly picking up speed until it topped out.

Troy looked back, Tully was giving it as good as he got and was staying just far enough behind Hitch to avoid eating his dust. Victor looked as he always did: Ramrod straight and stoic.

At least, thought Troy, if the guy couldn't have a personality, he was a glad that Victor was an excellent shot with the .50.

As he kept telling himself, Moffitt's replacement could have been far worse. But with any luck, they'd have Moffitt back before the afternoon was over. Then, Troy would be able to send the big fellow on his merry way. Victor would be free to find whatever else was more exciting than travelling with the Rat Patrol. Troy didn't know exactly what that would be. He did know that his own heart couldn't take much more excitement than what he already saw on a daily basis.

All the same, he wished Victor the best and said a short prayer for whatever crew ended up with him next.

* * *

The gap between the car and the Jeeps finally closed, Troy had clambered up to man the fifty, holding on for dear life as Hitch swung the Jeep hard and wide so that they could come up in front of the staff car.

The driver reacted as quickly as he could, the car skidding on the loose surface until it was merely feet from Hitch's Jeep. Tully came roaring up behind it. The car was effectively boxed in between them.

Meaning nothing but business, Troy leveled the .50 at the windshield of the car. "Get out. Hands where I can see them." He threw a look at Victor, who was also standing at the ready.

Victor nodded, looking hopeful. Troy, on the other hand, was hopeful that there was nothing for Victor to be hopeful about. He just wanted to get Moffitt and go back to camp. Troy had had enough of the drama. Frankly, he was ready for the whole thing just to be over.

Troy watched as two Gestapo agents got out of the front of the car. They had their hands up as requested. Troy kept his eye on the taller one, the officer. The guy looked like an evil son of a bitch and Troy already instinctually knew that he was the more dangerous of the two.

Watching, Troy waited for Moffitt to also exit the car. When he didn't, Troy frowned. "Hitch, go check the back seat."

The Gestapo men gave Hitch no trouble as he walked over to the car and peered into the back seat.

Hitch looked up, his face was the picture of disappointment. "There's no one else in there, Sarge."

"God damn it," Troy swore. He looked down at the two Gestapo. "Where is he?"

The taller man smiled at Troy. "Where is who?"

"Jack Moffitt," Troy nearly screamed in frustration. "Where is Sergeant Jack Moffitt?"

The two men looked at each other, said something in German, and then shook their heads.

"What?" asked Troy, not understanding any of it, least of all what the two goons had said to one another. "I'm not going to ask you again. Where is Moffitt?"

The taller man answered. "I am afraid that Sergeant Moffitt is dead."

Troy was vaguely aware that whatever thin thread that had been holding him together had finally snapped. He was down from the back of the Jeep before he even registered his own movements.

"God damned fucking Nazi bastards!" Troy screamed. "I just want all of you to stop trying to convince me that Moffitt is dead!"

Troy went up to the Gestapo guy and punched him squarely in the face. The man tried to fight back, but Troy wasn't having it. With a few more punches, Troy had the guy on the ground, pumping his fist repeatedly into the man's face.

"Where," Troy paused to hit the man again, "is," Troy landed another punch, "Jack Moffitt?" When Troy didn't get any answer, he continued to pummel the man. Soon, Troy's hand was numb, but that didn't stop him. He just kept jackhammering the man's face.

"Sarge?"

Troy barely heard the voice, but he did feel the hands that were trying to get him to his feet. In blind rage, Troy turned around, ready to give whoever was manhandling him the same treatment that he had just given to the Gestapo bastard.

"Sarge," Hitch said, softly. "Come on, stop for a second. Take a look over there." He pointed.

Troy registered that Hitch was smiling. Troy's gaze followed Hitch's direction, and soon he was smiling, too.

"Look what I found in the boot, Sarge. I don't know why I'm surprised. After all, that's where most folks keep their spare," Tully said.

Moffitt pulled a face at Tully. "Is that what I am now?" He looked up to Victor, standing at the gun that he normally manned. "A spare? For Christ's sake, Troy, I've only been gone a week."

Troy felt like crying in relief. He let Hitch pull him to his feet. Standing there for a moment, Troy looked hard at Moffitt, wanting to be sure that what he was seeing was real and not some desert mirage. Convinced that his eyes were not deceiving him, Troy went over and put both of his hands on Moffitt's very solid shoulders. "We thought that you were going to be gone for a lot longer than that, Moffitt."

"Well, you've got me back. Sooner than expected, apparently. I hope that you're happy about that, Troy?"

"Very."

Moffitt's face split into a wide grin. "As am I."

Troy noticed that Tully was supporting almost all of Moffitt's weight. "You okay?"

"No, I'm definitely not okay. But I'll live." Moffitt shifted his position slightly and then grimaced in pain. "God help me."

Troy was about to say something uncharacteristically caring, but a gunshot stopped him. He looked up just in time to see Victor re-holstering his side arm.

Victor jerked his head in the direction of the car.

Troy saw the second Gestapo men slumped over the hood. The blood that was running out of him cut rivers through the dust that coated the vehicle.

Troy looked back up at Victor.

Victor shrugged. "Getting away," he explained.

"I say, he is quite the thing, isn't he, Troy?" Moffitt murmured, his eyes also on Victor. "Where ever did you find him? Doctor Frankenstein's laboratory?"

"Yeah, Victor's something all right. Did I tell you how glad I am that we got you back, Moffitt?"

Moffitt was still looking at Victor, an expression akin to horrified awe on his face. "Can't imagine why."

"You don't even know the half of it, Moffitt." Troy laughed and shook his head. "I think that we're done here."

"Well, not quite."

Before Troy realized it, Moffitt had broken away from Tully. He brushed against Troy on his way past. Troy watched as Moffitt, in agonizingly slow steps, made his way over to the living Gestapo agent. The man was sitting up now, supporting himself against the side of the car. Though his face was a bloody pulp, he managed something that resembled a leer at Moffitt.

"I have enjoyed our time together, Sergeant Moffitt. More so with you than I have with perhaps any other," the man said. "You have provided me with many hours of entertainment. I am very sorry that you will not get to experience what else I had in store for you."

"You will understand if I don't return the sentiment, I am sure," Moffitt said, his voice as cold as ice. "Go to hell, Kauffmann."

Troy jumped when the shot rang out. Mouth hanging open, he watched as the Gestapo officer slowly fell over, eyes wide open, a bullet hole neatly placed between them.

It was then that Troy realized that his side arm was gone.

Moffitt, holding the gun, was looking back at Troy. "Now we are quite done."

Painfully, Moffitt made his way back to them. He handed Troy the gun, and then, kept going. When he had reached Tully's Jeep, he climbed into the back.

"Ready any time you are, Troy," Moffitt called from where he sat, calmly looking straight ahead like nothing had happened. "Shall we shake it?"


	21. A Choice

The end, thought Dietrich, was near. Not only of the battle, but of the war.

Dietrich had decided that he would face the end, whether it be death or capture, with the dignity with which he had started it all. There was some comfort to take from that, even when he could take comfort from little else. It was what allowed him to begin every nightmarish day after the one before it had closed. It was also what allowed him to motivate his men to do the same.

His new unit was mostly made up of recruits who were new to the desert and new to the war. They were, Dietrich thought, so very young. Perhaps, that was because he felt so very old. He was tired most days, as he swam alone in a sea of strange faces. While he had encouraged the men to build relationships on and off the battlefield, Dietrich had held himself distant. Even if it was not necessarily how Dietrich had approached his command in the past, it was what was expected from his troops. German officers had never been known to be overly friendly with their men.

It was likely, realized Dietrich, for the best. As a result, he felt alone in what he knew could well be his final days. In a world so mad, having any attachments to anyone was unwise. He told himself that was no comfort in comradery that was so likely ephemeral.

But no matter what he told himself, Dietrich found that he spent most of his free time thinking about how truly alone he was. He was unable to stop himself from dwelling on all the losses that had led to his solitary condition, including those that had not occurred as a result of the war. Dietrich remembered the loss of his parents, dead for years, taken from him by a cruel accident. He thought of Herzgog, who had left their world because he could no longer allow his daughter to live in it. However, he had had the time to get over those losses.

The ones that he found himself thinking about frequently were the most recent.

The day that Dietrich had admitted to himself that he missed Bader was the day that he had begun to question his own sanity. At first, in a whimsy that must have been born of battle fatigue, Dietrich had entertained the idea that if Bader had indeed been taken prisoner, certainly the Americans would beg the Germans to take him back. Of course, that had not happened. He could only assume that the boy was dead. It was not uncommon for him to look over and expect to see Bader standing beside of him. When he realized Bader was not there, Dietrich still could not help feeling the bitterness of all of his losses afresh.

Of all of the losses that Dietrich mourned, the loss of Wilhelm's friendship was the most painful. He doubt that it would have hurt more if Wilhelm had actually been dead.

As awful as the merciless onslaught of the Allies was, time on the battlefield had become a welcome respite from Dietrich's grief. It was impossible to dwell on death and loss while trying to stay alive. When the fighting had stopped, Dietrich had lost even that small comfort. A momentary lull, he told himself, before the Allies unleashed their final storm.

By that time, Dietrich had nearly reached a place where he felt at peace, having accepted his losses for what they were. He was left feeling as if he had nothing, and no one, left to lose. Considering the circumstances, the frame of mind was not entirely unfortunate. Dietrich felt that he could face, without trepidation, any end that fate would see fit to give him. He merely had to wait for it. When it came, he would meet it, with his head held high and with open arms.

Until then, Dietrich would continue to do his duty, to his men and to his army. Even with all of his other losses, he was determined that he would not lose himself.

* * *

There had been little evidence of Allied activity in the German territory.

Despite the quiet, Dietrich and his unit still had orders to complete the necessary tasks, which mainly consisted of patrolling what remained of the German held territories. Even if the activity seemed unnecessary, Dietrich ensured that his men took their routine duties as seriously as if they were riding into battle every day. He had been very glad of that when the quiet had ended abruptly, courtesy of none other than the Rat Patrol.

It was, thought Dietrich, as would have been expected.

His patrol had come upon the desert vermin as they attempted to destroy one of the few existing Wehrmacht supply caches. With quick action and flawless implementation, Dietrich's group managed to force Troy and his men to leave before they had completed their mission. While shots were exchanged during the skirmish, there had been no casualties.

Dietrich was gratified that his unit had met the challenge with the best results that could expected. Victories of late for the Wehrmacht had been few and far between. As he surveyed the blessed lack of damage, Dietrich felt inordinately proud of both himself, his new second, and their men.

Or, at least he had, until the extremely delayed charges blew the supply depot sky high.

* * *

Dietrich found himself laying in the sand with his men scattered around, wondering why he had been so stupid as to presume that Troy would not best him yet again.

When he opened his eyes and saw two soft brown knee high boots standing before him, Dietrich was hardly surprised.

"Hi Captain," Troy said cheerfully. "You manage to get paroled from your cushy POW camp job?"

"Obviously," Dietrich answered him, managing to prop himself up in the sand. "And I see that you and your men continue to menace the desert, Sergeant."

"Never really stopped."

"Yes, that would be too much for which to hope, wouldn't it? Though it has been a while since I have seen you."

"I took a little bit of a break. Literally." Troy held up his right hand. It seemed to be covered in a cast of sorts, that extended from the knuckles to just past the wrist. "But don't you worry, I'm back in action now. Light duty, you know."

Only Troy would consider blowing something to kingdom come light duty, thought Dietrich.

Dietrich peered around Troy at where the rest of his men stood manning their Jeeps. There were three men there, he could see that. However, he was just far enough away that he could not determine with certainty if one of them happened to be Moffitt. Two of the men looked to be the drivers that had always made up part of Troy's team. The third man looked far too large to be the lanky Englishman. The more Dietrich studied him, the more that he knew it to be true.

In the end, it seemed as though Moffitt had not survived the Gestapo. Dietrich tried to squash the resurgence of regret at the idea of the man's death. He found himself unsuccessful.

Troy turned and followed Dietrich's gaze. "Looking for someone, Captain?"

Dietrich nearly answered him and then thought better of it. Instead, he concentrated on getting to his feet.

"You know, I wanted to say thank you," said Troy, looking down at his boots and then squinting up at Dietrich. "I got your message."

It took Dietrich a moment to register the true meaning behind the words. When he realized what Troy was telling him, relief washed over him. "I am glad to hear that, Sergeant. It was very important to me that you knew that. And very important to me that you received the message."

"Yeah. I was glad to get it." Troy pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Dietrich. "I guess I should return the favor. I've been asked to deliver you a message, too."

Dietrich waited until Troy lit the cigarette for him. "And what is that?" he asked.

"I ran into Bader after he was taken prisoner. He wanted me to tell you that he was all right. I told him that I would be sure to tell you if I had the chance." Troy grinned. "He seemed pretty positive that we might see you again. I guess the kid was right. For once."

The news brought a genuine smile to Dietrich's face. "I am very happy to hear it." He looked back to where Troy's men stood, ever watchful. "And where is Sergeant Moffitt?"

"Oh, he's still laid up. Doc wouldn't clear him for duty yet. Gestapo really did a number on him." Troy looked grim and then glanced down at his injured hand. "Bastards," he spat.

Dietrich could not help but to wonder if Kauffmann had actually gotten the opportunity to continue his abuse of Moffitt at Gestapo Headquarters, or, if Troy had managed a rescue before that had happened. Either way, Dietrich would bet that while Moffitt had survived, Kauffmann had not.

It was one death about which Dietrich could not be sorry.

"Moffitt should be back out with us in a week or so," Troy said.

"I am pleased to hear that he is on the mend." And Dietrich was. Even if it meant that the man was once again going to be allowed to run unfettered across the desert like the half tamed Arab that he really was.

"So." Troy exhaled a thick plume of smoke. "What should we do with you?"

Dietrich did not know how to answer that. He had to assume that it was a rhetorical question.

"The way I see it," Troy continued, "we have two options. We could take you and your men prisoner," Troy paused to look at Dietrich's men who seemed to be slowly regaining consciousness, "and you all could spend the rest of the war nice and comfy in one of our POW camps."

Dietrich had had enough of prisoner of war camps, Allied or Axis. "Or? What is the other option?"

Troy shrugged. "I can leave you and your men here. Free to go back to the war. Or at least, what's left of it."

"I see." Dietrich considered. Having a choice was not a luxury that was expected.

It would be very easy to surrender to Troy. There would be no shame in it. Another Wehrmacht officer being taken prisoner by the Allies would hardly raise anyone's eyebrows, so many losses had already occurred. It would allow him and his men the best chance of survival.

However, surrender was a repugnant concept to Dietrich. He could not help but to be disappointed in himself that he would even entertain the idea.

Still, there were the men to consider . . .

"Captain? Unfortunately, we don't have all day. Literally. I'd like to get back to our base before it gets dark." Troy looked up at the position of the sun. "What's it going to be?"

Dietrich nodded, having made his decision. "You may leave us here."

Troy narrowed his eyes. "You're sure about that?"

"Yes, Sergeant. I am very sure."

"All right." Troy looked at Dietrich's men again. "Need water or medical supplies or anything?"

Dietrich paused a moment to glance over his men, assessing their general condition. "No, we should be fine. It will be a simple matter for you to radio in our position and for us to await rescue."

"Suit yourself." Troy was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking seriously about something. "Captain," he began.

Apparently, Troy thought better of what he was going to say and clamped his mouth firmly shut. Dietrich could imagine what Troy was thinking: That he was throwing away his and his men's chance to ensure that they survived the war. And Troy had probably deemed Dietrich very foolish indeed. Dietrich had no trouble admitting that Troy was likely right on all counts.

"There is no easy path, Sergeant," Dietrich said, finally, when Troy still hadn't spoken. "Not for any of us."

"And it wouldn't be like you to take the easy path, would it, Captain?" Troy sighed heavily. "Now you sound like someone else I know."

Dietrich raised his eyebrows. "I cannot imagine who that would be?"

"I bet you can't."

Troy took a few steps back. He raised his wounded hand in a salute.

Dietrich returned the salute.

Troy held Dietrich's eyes for a moment and then dropped his hand. He turned and started walking back to his men.

Suddenly, Troy stopped. He turned. "You know, we may never see each other again."

Despite himself, Dietrich nearly laughed. "Could I really be so lucky?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Who knows, right? Anyway, I just wanted to tell you," Troy looked away, "you've always been a decent guy and a good soldier, Captain Dietrich. I hope that the war lets you stay that way."

Dietrich could not help but swallow. "Thank you, Sergeant Troy. You have always been an honorable man and a worthy opponent. I wish you and your men good fortune, wherever the war takes you."

Troy flashed Dietrich a genuine smile before he started walking back to his men.

Dietrich watched Troy get into his Jeep and drive away. He continued to watch until the two Jeeps and four men were just tiny dots on the horizon.

And then they were gone.

* * *

Dietrich busied himself with checking on his men.

Miraculously, none of them had been seriously injured. Most were merely dazed by the concussion from the explosion. Everything was as well as it could be, considering. Dietrich relaxed and settled into the shade afforded by one of the disabled half-tracks to await their rescue, certain that Sergeant Troy would keep his word,

Honor and decency as a soldier and a man were standards to which Dietrich had always held himself and others. It saddened him greatly that he had reached the point in the war where we found more of those qualities in the enemy than he had in a friend.

If he could not have any friends, Dietrich told himself, then at least he had enemies like Troy and Moffitt.

The thought was ludicrous, but then, so was everything else about his situation.

"Herr Hauptmann?"

Dietrich had been given a new second along with his new unit, Brandt, a junior leutnant that had been freshly turned out from the academy in the last graduating class. Dietrich knew that the young man had promise. Brandt had already shown himself to be a natural leader, who possessed a talent for quick thought and decisive action. Dietrich wondered if the boy would be allowed to realize his full potential before the war claimed him as yet another casualty.

Dietrich looked up. "Yes, Leutnant? Are the men all right? Is anything the matter?"

"Everything is fine. Or, as well as could be expected." Brandt gestured to the space beside of Dietrich, asking permission to sit beside of him.

Dietrich nodded.

Brandt sank down into the sand and handed Dietrich a canteen. "The men are well. I just checked on everyone again and made sure that they had enough water." The boy looked down, suddenly shy. "I wanted to offer some to you as well, sir."

"Thank you, Brandt." Dietrich took the canteen and drank, making sure to leave a good measure in reserve. He suspected that Brandt had seen to the men and to his commander first before he had allowed himself any water.

When Dietrich handed the canteen back to Brandt, the way that the boy drank confirmed Dietrich's suspicions. He could only assume that had been the last of the water. It did not worry Dietrich. Gauging the position of the sun, he would assume that their rescue would be there shortly. He was certain that Troy had known where his unit was and had done the calculations to have them rescued before another hour had passed. Dietrich would expect no less from the man.

Dietrich again appreciated that even in the middle of the madness, there was still someone on which he could depend. Even if that someone was the enemy, it still counted for something.

"So," Brandt said, breaking the silence, "that was the Rat Patrol, eh?"

"Yes, that was the Rat Patrol, Brandt." Dietrich could not help the sigh that escaped him as he said the words.

"They certainly are as dangerous as you said."

Dietrich turned to look at his second. "They are indeed. And I ask that you never forget that."

"I do not think that I could if I tried." Brandt surveyed the damage that Troy and his team had left in their wake and then gave a small smile. "While I will not fear them, I will certainly respect them."

Dietrich nodded, satisfied. It was the most that he could ask. "Good."

Brandt was silent for a few moments. "Their commander seems an honorable man," he said, finally.

"Sergeant Troy? Yes, he is," Dietrich agreed. A lesser man would have shot them all for sport, or at the very least, quickly carried the trophy of a Wehrmacht officer back to his unit.

"Not many men in his position would have given us such a choice."

Dietrich raised an eyebrow and wondered if Brandt could read his mind. "A choice?"

"I speak English, Herr Hauptmann. Quite well, actually. I could not help but to over hear your exchange with him."

Dietrich realized that he knew nowhere near as much about his men as he should. He resolved to make more of an effort. "Do any of the other men speak English?"

"No, just me. The rest did not understand more than a word or two of your conversation. But I am glad to know that you chose as you did."

"Are you?" Dietrich was mildly surprised. After the miseries of the past few weeks, if Brandt had welcomed the idea of surrender, Dietrich would not have blamed him.

"Of course. There is still a war to fight. I also want to continue fighting it until it is over. Not just in Africa, but in Europe as well," Brandt said with conviction. He nodded at the men around them. "We all do. Not only for Germany, but for our honor."

At least the boy had not said "for the Fuhrer" or "for the Reich." Dietrich did not know if he could have taken that. He had to wonder if Brandt and the men truly understood what a lofty goal they were setting for themselves. While the war in Arfika would end soon enough, there would be plenty more combat to be seen before all was done. They could all be fighting for years to come. It was very presumptuous of any soldier from either side to think that he would survive to see the end of such a thing.

Skill and bravery would only count for so much. Luck would also a determining factor. And, as Dietrich knew all too well, luck was a fickle thing. But if he was being perfectly honest, Brandt's and the men's faith in themselves, their commander, and in the men around them would also influence their destinies.

"I will do my very best to help you all accomplish that goal," Dietrich promised. After all, it was his job as their commander and leader to give faith. Even after his own had been tested so sorely as of late and remained tenuous as a result.

Brandt gave Dietrich a grin. "If anyone could, it would be you, sir."

"I appreciate your confidence, Brandt." Dietrich felt ashamed at taking the boy's trust so easily when he was not at all certain that he deserved such a gift.

"Of course. It is well placed, Herr Hauptmann. Your reputation precedes you, if I may say so."

"My reputation?" Dietrich could not help but to give a soft snort at that, thinking about what Brandt could have heard.

"Oh, Herr Hauptmann, you are far too modest!" Brandt fixed Dietrich with a look. "Or, is it possible that you actually do not know?"

"Know what?"

What did Brandt know of him, Dietrich asked himself? That he was constantly bested by Troy and his patrol? Or, perhaps, that he had a soft heart? Did the boy know that Dietrich could not whole heartedly support the Hitler's war effort because he was not, and could never be, a Nazi?

Dietrich waited for the answer.

"I heard your name, even while I was at the Academy. You are considered to be one our best and bravest officers. A compassionate leader with your men, decent and honorable on and off the battlefield. A man who knows how to win, and when to retreat. As a result, you have the earned the respect of all who have served with you." Brandt looked in the direction of where Troy had stood earlier. "Even the respect, apparently, of your enemy. In short, you are everything that embodies for me the true heart of Germany and the Wehrmacht."

If Dietrich had been given to blushing, he thought that he may have well done so. As it was, he had to clear his throat before he trusted himself to speak.

"Thank you," Dietrich said, finally.

"When I shared the news with my men that you would be our new commander, we all felt extremely fortunate, Herr Hauptmann. Good men and good leaders are in short supply these days. You have never been needed more."

After the past few weeks, Dietrich did not need Brandt to tell him that.

Or perhaps, Dietrich realized, he did.

There was a rumbling in the distance that announced their rescue. Brandt got to his feet and offered Dietrich his hand.

Dietrich allowed Brandt to help him, even though he felt stronger than he had for quite some time.

Brandt looked over at Dietrich with a smile. "Ready to get back to the war, sir?"

Dietrich returned the smile. "I am indeed."


	22. Same As it Ever Was

Troy snuck a look over at the other bunk, just to convince himself that Moffitt was actually there, living and breathing.

Moffitt caught him. He glanced up from his book, an amused expression on his face. "Everything all right, Troy?"

"Yeah." Troy averted his eyes quickly, more than a little embarrassed.

"Glad to hear it." Moffitt went back to reading.

Troy told himself that he was going to have to break himself of that habit, and quick, before it got to be a source of embarrassment. Considering everything that he had gone through, Troy thought that Moffitt seemed amazingly close to okay.

He couldn't quite understand why he couldn't convince himself of that without constant reassurance.

Looking at Moffitt again, Troy noticed that he was reading the same book that he had been the night that they had gone to play poker. "I thought that you said that book was awful?"

Moffitt sighed. "It is. There's just not much else to do, is there?"

Troy couldn't disagree with that. Thanks to Moffitt's injuries, both the burns that he had sustained pulling John's guys out of the tank and the abuse that he had suffered at the hands of the Gestapo, he had been laid up for more than a week.

Troy could sympathize. As a result of beating the hell out of that sick Gestapo bastard, he had broken several bones in his hand and fractured his wrist. He looked at the cast that extended from his knuckles to his mid forearm. It was an improvement from the heavy plaster of the first one. At least now, he was able to go out and give the Germans hell. Troy flexed his fingers the best that he could and was gratified that the motion barely hurt him. Every punch had been worth it, he decided. But worth it or not, as a result he had sat out the end of Operation Sandstorm with Moffitt.

Troy supposed it was okay with him. Missing a battle was not going to entail missing the war. There were plenty more opportunities to take on the Germans before it was all said and done. According to Boggs, now that Sandstorm had run its course, the Allies would take a few weeks and to prepare for the final push that would get the Krauts out of Africa once and for all. Troy was pretty certain that Moffitt would be back in action for that, and for whatever would come afterwards.

Which was good, because Victor was still hell bent on trying to make the war more "exciting." Troy wasn't sure how much longer he was going to be able stop Victor from succeeding.

"Sergeants?" came a voice from outside of the tent. "May I come in?"

"Sure. Come on in, Lieutenant," Troy called to Marshall. He made a face at Moffitt.

Moffitt grinned.

Troy attempted as much of a salute as he could with his damaged hand. Moffitt nodded at the officer.

"Hi guys. How are you both doing?" Marshall inquired.

"I think that we're doing just fine, Lieutenant. Anything that we can do for you?" Troy asked, suspiciously. Over the past few weeks, he had come to associate Marshall's presence with bad news. It was going to take him a while to get over that.

"What? Oh, no. I just brought this over for Sergeant Moffitt. We just received it from his Army. Looked pretty important." Marshall handed an envelope to Moffitt. "I was out this way, so I thought that I would bring it by."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Moffitt took the envelope and looked at it. He sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that this is likely not good news?" He opened it, scanned the contents and then closed his eyes in frustration. "Good lord. Apparently, the English Army doesn't have a policy on how to deal with this. I'm to wait until they draft one." Moffitt pulled a face. "Nec aspera terrent, you know."

"Difficulties be damned?" Marshall looked curious. "You having problems, Sergeant?"

"Well, let me just tell you, Lieutenant: Being a dead man is a pain in the arse. Particularly, if you're not actually dead."

Troy nodded. "Since we reported Moffitt as deceased, seems like his army doesn't think that they should have to pay him anymore."

"Huh," Marshall said, puzzled. "You're obviously still alive, Moffitt."

"Quite." Moffitt handed the envelope back to Marshall. "But even as such, it's proven rather difficult to get it sorted. Perhaps you could help me? The word of an officer from the US Army might carry more weight than my own in this matter."

Troy wondered if Moffitt realized how stupid that sounded. He figured that Moffitt probably did. Knowing the army, it was actually probably true.

"Sure. How hard could it be to straighten that out?" Marshall stuck the envelope into his shirt pocket. "I'll be happy to do anything that I can to help."

"Thank you, Lieutenant, that's really very decent of you," Moffitt said.

"Don't mention it. I'll let you know when it is all taken care of. You guys let me know if you need anything else." Marshall nodded at both Troy and Moffitt and then left.

Troy waited until Marshall would be safely out of earshot. "He's bitten off more than he can chew with that, hasn't he?"

"Most likely, yes. The English Army is not keen to admit that one of the men that they classified as dead is still very much alive. I suppose it is rather embarrassing for them. Not to mention a lot of paperwork that I'm sure no one has the desire, nor the time, to deal with. But, perhaps if Marshall will admit that it was actually a US Army mistake that caused all of the confusion and offer to help, we'll see some progress."

Troy thought about it. "I guess it was kind of our mistake. Sorry."

Moffitt gave Troy a look of mock indignation. "I would think that you should be."

"Despite burying your dead body, I guess I really should have known better, huh?" Troy grinned.

"Too right. At least you managed to figure it out before it was actually true." Moffitt returned the grin and settled back, attempting to get as comfortable as his still healing injuries would allow. "And you went to great pains to do so. I can't tell you enough, Troy, how eternally grateful I am to you, Tully, and Hitch for not giving up on me."

"I'm just thankful you aren't actually dead, Moffitt."

"You and me both. It was cut much closer this time than I would have liked. If you hadn't come along when you did," Moffitt trailed off, obviously not wanting to think about what kind of continued hell he would have endured at the hands of the Gestapo.

Troy didn't want to think about that, either. "I'm sorry that I didn't figure it out sooner."

"No one is ever going to say that you didn't do what you could, Troy. You know, when I think about you digging up the body and taking it to the dentist, I still can't help but to laugh, every time."

"He sure wasn't laughing when we did." And if the reprimand that Troy had received from Boggs had been any indication, Dr. Howard hadn't found it too funny in hindsight, either.

Troy recalled that Boggs had explained that there was a process to be followed in such matters and that digging up a dead body and dumping in the tent of an officer was not part of that process. Troy had pointed out that following procedure was hardly his thing, but it was to no avail. Considering that Boggs had never questioned if Troy was following procedure when he got things done for him, Troy could only assume that the dentist had pushed the whole matter. Regardless, Troy had taken the dressing down, and the punishment that had followed, gladly and with no hard feelings.

As Tully had wisely said, sometimes there was just no avoiding a little trouble to get someone out of a lot of it.

Troy looked heavenward. "The things we do for you, Moffitt."

Moffitt suddenly burst out laughing. Troy couldn't help but to join him.

When their laughter had receded, Moffitt looked thoughtful. "To think, though, that ultimately I have Bader to thank for saving my life. Never thought that I would be saying that."

"Bader owed us, didn't he? We've saved his life at least once," Troy said.

"True enough. And on occasion, Dietrich's life as well, after Bader put him in the soup. To that end, do you think that Dietrich misses Bader? It's hard to imagine the two of them apart."

Troy could sympathize only all too well with someone losing their second. Even if it was Bader. "At least he knows that Bader isn't dead." Troy tried not to sound bitter and failed. While he truly did believe that it hadn't been Dietrich's fault that they were misled, it still didn't stop Troy from being a little sore about the whole thing in general.

"I'm glad that you were able to get him Bader's message," Moffitt said. "I would think that it really meant something to Dietrich to hear it."

Troy thought back to that afternoon. Dietrich had looked more beaten than Troy had ever seen him look before, even though Troy had beaten him far worse on numerous occasions. Instinctually, he knew that he was probably the least of all the things against which Dietrich was fighting.

"I think that Dietrich has found himself in a pretty awful situation at this point in the war, with or without Bader," Troy said, finally. "Though, I actually saw his new second. Looked and acted like a smart kid. And he's at least six foot tall."

"Things are looking up then, aren't they? Literally." Moffitt grinned. "Good for Dietrich. I was beginning to think that the Captain couldn't draw a good second even if the deck was stacked in his favor."

"Yeah, first Bader, and then that moron lieutenant from the camp."

Moffitt shook his head. "I can't imagine the pool of German officers is going to be running any deeper in the future."

Troy thought back again to how he'd left Dietrich that afternoon. "It's too bad that the Captain wouldn't take me up on my offer."

"Come now!" Moffitt snorted. "You and I both know it, Troy. You would have died of shock if he had."

Troy could admit that he probably would have. Even with the outlook growing grimmer for Dietrich and the Wehrmacht by the day, the Captain's answer to his offer was the same as it always had been. However, it wouldn't stop Troy from offering again next time he had the chance. One day, Dietrich might just figure out that the easiest path wasn't necessarily the wrong one.

"Still a shame, though, isn't it? I'd rather think of Dietrich as alive at the end of it. After all, he is the best German we know," Moffitt said.

Troy agreed, but he found the idea of discussing of Dietrich's possible fate depressing and decided that it was time to change the subject. "I got word that John and his boys will be coming back into camp tonight to stay for a while. I'm sure that they'll want to see you."

Moffitt visibly perked up. "That will be very nice indeed! Actually, I've discovered that I have some gaps in my vocabulary that I need to fill. I'd like to ask Sergeant Twofish if he could oblige. Never know when the language might come in handy again."

Only Moffitt would be so interested in a language that was nearly dead, thought Troy. Though in this case, a dead language had saved a lot of lives. But then, that wasn't the first time that had happened where Moffitt had been involved. Troy still had no earthly idea what "Old Coptic" was, or had been.

"And, knowing John," Troy paused and lit a cigarette, "I'm sure that he'll want to get a card game going."

Moffitt noticeably blanched. "I think that I'll pass on that, if it's all the same to you."

"Want me to bankroll you? Until the next time that you get paid?" Troy asked innocently, even though he knew that wasn't the reason why Moffitt didn't want to play cards with them. "You do have to promise me that you won't go all in on two pair again, though."

"I appreciate your kind offer, Troy. But no thank you. Wouldn't want to put you out. And you know how I feel about borrowing things."

Troy did know exactly what was eating Moffitt, and it wasn't the idea of a loan from Troy. "Moffitt, the odds of you drawing that hand again would be astronomical."

"I'm aware." Moffitt nodded. "I've done the math."

Troy hardly surprised by that. "So, what is it?" he asked, curious.

"Well," Moffitt said, "I am beginning to believe that luck has everything to do with whether or not we survive the war."

Troy wasn't sure what to say to that. Luck definitely had something to do with all of it. Wrong place or wrong time would do a man in, even if he had done everything else right. When your number was up, it was up. Call it God, call it a higher power, or call it luck like Moffitt was, there was definitely an element to survival that was out of their hands. Skills and smarts were only part of what was needed to come home alive from a day at the war.

"I have come to the conclusion that one only has so much luck. And with the events of the past weeks, I think that I've done a good job of using up what must be my fair share. As a result, I've decided not spend the rest of what remains frivolously on games of chance." Moffitt picked his book up again. "That includes cards, I'm afraid."

"Okay. Suit yourself. They'll be a place at the table for you if you change your mind."

"Thank you. But I won't."

"You should at least come out tonight and have a drink if you feel up to it. There's reason to celebrate, you know." Troy looked at Moffitt. "Our guys liberated that POW camp a few days ago, the one that you and John's boys were in. Not sure if I told you that."

"You hadn't. Well, that is wonderful news. I could indeed drink to that. And would do so now," Moffitt gave Troy a look of disappointment, "if someone hadn't drank all of my whiskey. I was saving that for a special occasion, you know."

Troy ducked his head. "I thought that it was a pretty special occasion. It was your wake, after all."

"Don't remind me." Moffitt made a face. "At least everyone was nice enough to give everything else that they took back."

"Only seemed right." Troy shrugged. "Not much point in keeping a memento if you actually have the man, is there?"

Moffitt went silent for a moment. "That is extremely profound, Troy."

"Thanks, Moffitt." Troy thought that Moffitt looked sincere enough and decided to accept the compliment for what it was. "Maybe I'll get my yia yia to stitch that on a sampler for us? She's always asking me in her letters if there is anything that she can do for us."

"That sounds like a lot of work for your poor granny. Particularly since we have no real walls upon which to hang it." Moffitt grinned, but the expression quickly faded. "It is too bad about Adams."

Troy knew that Adams not being there with them would cast a shadow on John's whole group, especially after he had gotten all of his other boys back. "At least you were able to tell me what happened to him."

"Honestly, I almost wish to God that I didn't know. That poor boy."

As soon as he had been well enough, Moffitt had told Troy exactly what had happened to Adams. And in horrifying detail. Troy didn't feel bad about omitting most of what Moffitt had shared when he had told John about Adams' death. It wouldn't have done anyone any good. There was a fine line between knowing, and knowing too much.

"The pure evil of the Gestapo knows no bounds." Moffitt shook his head in disgust, his eyes suddenly ablaze with the cold fire of intense hatred. "I will take great pleasure in personally sending every single one of them that crosses my path straight to hell."

Troy had to agree. On both counts. Judging from what he had been able to piece together from hearing Moffitt's nightmares, it wasn't a surprise to Troy that Moffitt had killed Kauffmann. And good for him, too, Troy thought. At least by actually doing it, Moffitt had saved himself the trouble of endlessly dreaming about putting a bullet in the sick bastard's head.

Out of the habit that Troy had yet to break, a furtive glance at Moffitt confirmed that he had gone back to reading. Troy continued to smoke, his mind again turning to Adams' unfortunate end. Adams had been the unlucky one this time. But next time . . .

Troy couldn't help but to think about how any one of them might not make it back from the next mission. Normally, he wouldn't ever entertain a thought like that. He couldn't live thinking that every day could be his last. It would likely end up becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. Not only for himself, but for those around him, too. While he agreed with Moffitt that luck was a factor, in Troy's opinion, having the faith that they could survive anything was what was going to get them all home from the war in one piece.

But, Troy could admit, there were some good things that could come out of at least appreciating the possible consequences of the risks that they took every day. Like not putting off things one day thinking you would be able to do them the next.

That included saying things that should be said. Troy cleared his throat. "Moffitt?"

Moffitt marked his place in his book with his finger and looked up. "Yes, Troy?"

"I just wanted to tell you . . ." Troy had to pause to gather his thoughts.

Moffitt continued to look at him expectantly.

Troy forced himself to start speaking again. It was harder than it should have been. "I just wanted to tell you, how much I appreciate you. You're the best second I've ever had. I owe you my life several times over. And so do Tully and Hitch."

Troy exhaled and fell back, the unaccustomed expression of sentiment having taken its toll.

Moffitt was uncharacteristically speechless for a moment. "Thank you, Troy," he said, finally. "That is very nice to hear. Though, I must say, not something I would have expected you to say. What brought that on?"

"I got some good advice. And I didn't take it when it was given to me. Then, I didn't think that I would ever have the chance to take it. And now that I do, I've been trying to take it, and so . . . I wanted to tell you." Troy concentrated on the seam that ran from top to bottom of their tent. "That's all."

"That's quite a lot." Moffitt gave Troy a wicked grin. "Perhaps I should be a dead man more often?"

"Don't you even think about it," Troy growled. He looked for something to throw at Moffitt. The only thing that he could find was his hat.

Moffitt picked the hat up and threw it back at Troy, but not before he put it on and attempted his best impression of Troy's glare.

Things escalated from there. By the time that Tully and Hitch had stopped by the tent to fetch them for dinner, Troy and Moffitt were both laughing like lunatics.

"What's so funny?" Hitch asked, staring at them. He looked to Tully.

Tully shrugged.

Troy tried to regain his composure and failed. "Some people just can't take a compliment."

Moffitt managed to stop laughing just long enough to throw in his two cents. "And some people just can't give one."

Hitch looked at Tully again. "Huh? What did we miss?"

"It's the same as it ever was, Hitch," Moffitt said, shaking his head. "You didn't miss a thing."

"I don't know about all of that," Tully said, picking up Troy's hat and handing it back to him, "but we sure as heck missed you, Moffitt."

At that, Troy and Moffitt both suddenly stopped laughing. Moffitt actually looked dangerously misty eyed. Troy hoped that he was doing a better job of hiding the lump that had formed in his throat.

Wasn't that just the thing, thought Troy? The one of them that said the least actually ended up saying the most. Despite everything that had happened, everything really was the same as it ever was. He couldn't have been happier about that.

Looking around at the others, Troy knew that he wasn't the only one.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note: Many thanks to Sandra! Without her kind words and encouragement, this story would never have been. With her insightful comments and feedback, it became the best story that it could be.**_


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